


We had words...and an aversion to silver

by Leviosally468



Series: Chronicles of a Witcher and his Bard [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...mostly?, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Original Character(s), Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Raising swords, Sex, We go down like Witchers, Yennefer boards the ship, defeated the villian, except Witchers don’t go down, for their bards, gal-pal Yennefer, kiss and make up story, okay maybe sometimes, pour them some ale, raising Hell, semi-established geraskier, stop fucking tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviosally468/pseuds/Leviosally468
Summary: He was restless. He had been restless all winter. To have made safe the girl only worked to reveal what still remained empty within him. He shouldn’t feel empty…it wasn’t right. But neither were the last words he had said. They nagged at him…a thorn in his side. They shouldn’t nag…they shouldn’t continue to hurt or fester…but they did.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Chronicles of a Witcher and his Bard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724992
Comments: 13
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I've literally trolled this ship for the past week and I love it. Just watched through The Witcher TV series and hoping to read the books soon, but I have no experience whatsoever with the games so apologies if anything is weird or seems inaccurate. This is my first Witcher fic so go easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is mixed POV, just as a heads up

He was restless. He had been restless all winter. To have made safe the girl only worked to reveal what still remained empty within him. He shouldn’t feel empty…it wasn’t right. But neither were the last words he had said. They nagged at him…a thorn in his side. They shouldn’t nag…they shouldn’t continue to hurt or fester…but they did. 

At first, he assumed that the pain was simply the absence of his regular routine; the thrill of his purpose and the gratification that came with knowing exactly what he needed to do and where he needed to be. But it had been six months since he had arrived at Kaer Morhen with Ciri and no amount of monsters or coin had managed to fill the aching void. He had tried to stuff the real reason down by building up walls that he fortified with the words that had been drilled into him like gospel; emotional involvement was the sustenance of weakness. He needed no one and did not need any one to _need him_ …and yet, here he was. 

Lately, the excuse had become feeble. The harsh reality, that he had to dig _very deep_ indeed to admit was that in fact, this defense couldn’t have been more false. If the fact that he had fumbled in his last job and almost gotten himself killed were any indication of how far from the truth this line of thought now was, _and_ how hopeless his continued resistance, then it was perhaps finally time to stop being pig-headed about it and admit to himself the gods-forsaken truth: He had left things badly with Jaskier, and it was slowly eating him alive. It was like trying to go through life without enough oxygen. It was like trying to behead a bloody Manticore with a fly buzzing around your head; an even more annoying fly than the bard he had so often used the comparison against, and no amount of willing himself back to a simpler time was going to change it.  
Fuck.  
  
With a groan, Geralt swung his legs over the side of the bed and massaged his temples, scrubbing a hand through his hair. If he thought his insomnia was bad before…He exhaled deeply and pushed himself to standing. He had no idea where Jaskier was but it wouldn’t be that difficult to find him. A witcher need only follow his nose, and lend a keen ear to enough tavern gossip, and hope that he hadn’t finally managed to get himself beheaded over one lady or the next. He pushed that thought away quickly; he wasn’t sure why it soured his gut…he hadn’t been all that subtle himself in the past. 

He strode to the window of the room and crossed his arms upon the ledge, looking out into the yard below the keep. A hint of greenery here and there spoke of a looming spring. His burnished gold eyes narrowed, taking in the scene outside the window. 

Yen was sitting across a scrubbed wooden table from Ciri and both of their eyes were fixed upon a line of large stones between them. Geralt sighed; the sound of a great ocean wave breaking upon a cliff. There was still a haunting beauty and guile about the mage that he knew would never completely cease to amaze him, but his desire for her had mutated into something different now. Was it ever even real? He had certainly found a way to fuck it up to the point of never truly being certain one way or the other. 

These days, the aftermath of the Djinn seemed more than ever like a cover up to suppress other emotions than anything else. His feelings for Yen were simpler…easier to understand and navigate, even when sex had been in the equation. Now, due in part to her lingering grudge against him for using his wish to gain her favor, and the fact that he could no longer deny the aching tug of a certain blue-eyed balladeer, their relationship had taken on a more platonic air. 

When it came to Jaskier, his feelings were not so easy to negotiate. It was difficult to think straight when he didn’t know if he still wanted to punch him on the nose or fuck him senseless. 

He pushed away from the window and began rummaging about for his clothes and armor. He had cursed himself for a fool so many times over his ceaseless worrying thoughts about the bard in the past six months, his own mind was weary of the struggle. He had made to leave in search of Jaskier so many times throughout the course of the winter, he had lost count, but now he was simply out of reasons to talk himself down with. He had no idea what he was going to say if he found him, but he would say…something.  
  
Yennefer looked up as the white-haired witcher strode across the yard. His brow was drawn, golden eyes searching the very dirt beneath his feet for answers…to what, she could only guess. He was suited up to travel, which wasn’t new in and of itself, but it would be the first time he had left the keep in almost four months. A crooked smile curled the corner of her mouth as he approached noiselessly. Ciri had her back to him; it was a bad combination. Tiptoeing the last few steps, Geralt’s hands rocketed to her arms. With a yelp, all four stones she had been balancing on top of each other tumbled with a clatter back to the table’s surface and skittered off in different directions. Ciri wheeled around in her seat panting, watery blue eyes wide with shock as they looked up into the witcher’s face. He chuckled warmly.  
  
“It’s good to know I can still sneak up on someone…” He said in that characteristic gravelly whisper. Ciri pulled a face, pushing him backward with a lingering scowl.  
  
“Not for much longer…” she grated back, “…Besides, it’s not altogether fair that my back was completely turned…” she indicated the pile of stones sourly. Yen shot him a look that said quite plainly ‘she’s all yours.’ He smirked.  
  
“Is that not how you expect to be caught in the real world? I can tell you from experience that it is a rare instance indeed that your attacker will bother with anything more than a ‘fuck you’ before not hesitating to hack you limb from limb…if he bothers even with that much.” Yen opened her mouth in outrage, almost assuredly to berate him for using such harsh language in front of the girl, but he cut her off with a glance. Her lurid violet gaze continued to regard him reproachfully. “She will hear it soon enough.” He laid his hands back on Ciri’s shoulders and squeezed them kindly.  
  
“How long will you be gone?” Yen asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.  
  
“I’m not sure.” He replied levelly, which was the truth, but he could barely begin to explain why he was going to himself let alone someone else, so he gave Ciri’s shoulders another squeeze and turned away, heading in the direction of the stables.  
  
“Allow me to save you some time then…” Yen called after his retreating back but he didn’t stop. “…He’s in Posada.” 

That was enough to stop the witcher in his tracks, but he wasn’t about to completely dignify her nosiness by turning around. Drawing deep steadying breaths, he picked up his pace once more toward the stables wondering just how much she bloody knew.  
  
(14 days later)  
  
He would be in the city in two days' time. More than the assurance of each passing day was the smell; the smell of civilization, tavern smoke, horse sweat and filth. With a pensive sigh, he picked up a log and stoked the fire before him, gazing into it and resting his chin upon tented fingers. Roach whickered softly in the shadows to his right. The witcher closed his eyes and let his mind wander…  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
_…Geralt’s fist closed around his wrist, squeezing it just under the point of pain._  
  
_“Geralt, unless you’ve suddenly developed a mutation that grants you the flexibility of a contortionist, your options are a bit limited…” Jaskier said placidly, meeting his gaze unblinking._  
  
_“Hmm…” Geralt growled a grudging assent as he released Jaskier's wrist and turned his back. He slowly opened the towel he had all too previously held clutched around his buttocks. While it was true that the physical possibility of him reaching his own backside to smother chamomile oil properly onto his brutalized skin was, indeed, a difficult task; the fact remained that at the very least, some small part of Geralt _wanted_ Jaskier to do it. He could hear the bard's tongue flit over his lips, could feel his eyes as they traveled from Geralt’s heavily scarred shoulders and down his muscular back. He puffed a sigh as a soft moan issued from behind him.  
  
“Well?” Geralt growled pointedly, throwing a half glance over his shoulder. “...It’s not going to apply itself, bard…”_

_He heard Jaskier come to with a squeak as his fingers fumbled with the stopper of the bottle.  
  
Geralt turned forward once again with a half smile to himself. This reaction didn’t necessarily mean anything; it was easy to have that effect on humans. It wasn’t vanity, it was just the truth. It was the effects of the mutations and the trials and the endless physicality of his work. The thought was barely in his head, however, before it was somewhat betrayed as a sharp intake of breath sounded from behind him and he felt the soft, greasy touch of Jaskier’s fingers upon his shoulders, massaging their way southward over the vast expanse of hard muscle that made up his back. His breath hitched in his throat and his heart pounded a bit faster in spite of himself.  
_

_Geralt exhaled heavily at the feel of Jaskier's deft and purposeful fingers as they traversed the angular curves and dimples of his musculature. Inside, his body was trying utterly to rat him out. His throat felt constricted and his insides twisted anxiously. He furrowed his brow, concentrating intently on the smooth circular motions Jaskier's thumbs made into the small of his back. Swallowing hard, he listened as Jaskier tipped the bottle into the palm of his hand once more, uncharacteristically quiet as he smeared more of the warm liquid over Geralt's skin and he steeled himself as Jaskier's hands slid ever downward. He bit his lip, his eyes shuttering closed as Jaskier's fingers traced oily lines over the hard curve of muscle of Geralts bare behind. Geralt felt his groin twinge expectantly and he mentally shook himself. He could feel Jaskier's breathing growing uneven from behind him. He could feel his fingers growing hesitant, and though the bard gave no verbal indication that would betray any of his current thoughts to Geralt, the witcher could smell the spike of lust in his scent. It was sweet and spicy and it made Geralt's head feel light. He tried not to dwell on that; Jaskier couldn't help Geralt's sublime sense of smell...but the insistent heat between his legs seemed not to care, so he shifted his thigh surreptitiously in an effort to hide the situation  
  
“Jaskier…have your hands become permanently affixed? Or will I be allowed to dress sometime tonight?” Geralt muttered without turning his head, smirking as the bard gave another small yelp, removing the hands that had suddenly ceased their massaging and were simply resting, idle on his bare ass…_  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
…The witcher smiled to himself as the flames danced playfully before him, memories fading.

  
(Four days previously)  
  
Jaskier sighed heavily as he leapt lightly from the small raised stage in the corner of the tavern. He could hear the boredom brewing in his audience as the sounds of idle chatter threatened to drown out the feeble strumming of his fingers. A growing disinterest hung thick in the already hazy, smoke filled air of the pub and it bore down on him as he set aside his instrument and collapsed into a corner table. His coin purse jingled weakly, intensifying the brooding dark cloud that over-took him. More than this, he was starting to sicken himself with the monotony of his own songs; the sound of his own repetitive verse threatening to scourge the very ears off his head. It wasn’t that he was tired of performing or creating as a general rule, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to come up with anything unique when he had been idle for almost five months…and a burning pit of sour regret and yearning ached menacingly in his gut. He looked suddenly down at himself, surprised there wasn’t a literal smoking hole in his chest already. He needed something new to write about…something epic…something death-defying…something dripping with the heroic charm that only a strong-willed, bull of a handsome white-haired witcher could bring about. Bollocks.  
He tilted his head back against the worn wood of the bench. He had run the scene several times in his head; standing before the gates of Kaer Morhen, lute in hand, singing stubbornly at the top of his lungs until the Witcher came down, but something held him back. Had Geralt meant what he had said? It was surprising how quickly the certainty of their smoldering yet unlikely friendship had shattered upon the rocks with Geralt's last words to him. Jaskier wasn’t a fool; The Witcher was far more emotional than he would ever admit, stunted though it was, and those words were either; A. a rash outpouring of a dozen pent-up feelings that had nothing to do with Jaskier OR B. …had _everything_ to do with him…and he wasn’t sure which option twisted his insides more, or indeed which one he preferred to entertain as the answer. So he had stayed in Posada, withering away like his songs…  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
… _“…and the last thing I want…is someone needing me…” The Witcher’s fierce gold orbs softened the tiniest amount; a bead of honey dripping over hard amber. Jaskier swallowed heavily, barely drawing breath…testing the boundary;  
  
“…and yet…here we are.” He said in a hoarse whisper, raising his head; baby blues lingering upon soft, burnished gold. Geralt nodded with a smirk and a ‘hmph’…a gods-forsaken joking expression curling his lips. _‘Bloody hell, Jaskier’_ …the bard cursed himself inwardly for thinking that even for the briefest moment he could draw the wolf onto his belly. He had sensed the walls crumbling on more than one occasion, despite the older man’s insistence that he was an emotionless loner/damaged goods/not worthy/ blah-bloody-blah…the fact remained that whether Geralt realized it or not he had been betraying this pathetic excuse for truth for months; in the way he had, albeit grudgingly, allowed Jaskier to grace his adventures, in every subtle nuance of his character that cast a very poetically human mask over the face of man forged to be everything but, in the way he allowed Jaskier into his space…his hands onto his godsforsakenly beautiful backside. But Jaskier was a sucker for words, they were his life-blood; grounding, certain (with the exception of Geralt’s perpetual grunts and hmphs), they gave him direction and purpose…and he wanted desperately to hear them from those soft, steam moistened lips. The moment quickly dissipated as The Witcher suddenly cast about, sloshing water dangerously against the side of the wooden basin.  
  
“Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier…”_… …  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
…“You look like you could use a drink, bard.” A feminine voice crooned above him. Jaskier lifted his head from where it drooped sullenly in his fists; eyes taking in layers of creamy white silks and lace that hugged a rather impressive bosom quite expertly. Finally, his roving gaze alighted upon her face; pale, smooth skin and high cheekbones encompassed a perfect rosy pink pout that was currently drawn in a crooked grin and deep, dark eyes regarded him under a raised brow. There was something about those eyes…they were like shadows of twilight just before the sunset; the enticing drizzle of rich, dark chocolate over toffee. Jaskier found himself very much unable to look away from her gaze. His mouth worked soundlessly, his brain desperately attempting to kick the rest of his body back into gear, but the woman merely smiled. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’” She chuckled, the sound of a twinkling wind chime, and swayed over to the bar; leaving a gaping Jaskier to shake himself suddenly out of his silent reverie.  
  
***  
  
“So what did you do?” Drizella’s lilting voice hummed as she leaned across the table, sizeable bosom spilling further from the plunging neckline of her dress, her eyes practically swallowing Jaskier whole.  
He had finally found his voice again after she had returned to the table, even though her gaze was still wildly disconcerting. _Drizella_ was the daughter of wealthy silk merchant and had traveled from Toussaint to Dol Blathanna in an effort to expand business and trade. She had heard his songs in her travels, and couldn’t resist the chance to meet the famous Geralt of Rivia and his bard, except…there was no Geralt of Rivia to be seen. To the inevitable question of why that was so, Jaskier mumbled a hurried ‘Oh…ehm, well you know…monsters are like cockroaches…kill one and twenty more appear…so, he’s er… _out_.’ And while it was a good enough answer to pacify her for the time being, she had insisted upon another round and that was how Jaskier now found himself, seated across from her penetrating gaze and regurgitating some of the finer moments of his travels with The Witcher. It felt good to reminisce, but the thoughts were painful at the same time, and he found himself swigging his wine more fervently as he barreled on.  
  
“…A lot of yelling…mostly…” Jaskier trailed off only a bit regretfully, remembering the way Toruviel’s strong fists split the skin of Geralt’s face as they struggled, bound upon the cave floor…not far from where he now sat, oddly enough. Drizella chuckled, leaning back into her chair, sweeping an impossibly long dark wave of hair that perfectly matched her eyes over her shoulder.  
  
“Suppose I’ll have to pry the more exciting, violent bits from The Witcher.” She mused, bringing the cup to her lips. Jaskier shuffled his feet nervously under the table and offered her what he could only hope was an encouraging, and innocent smile. He wasn’t sure what had made him lie about the lack of Geralt’s company; his wariness of talking to a complete stranger, or his unwillingness to discuss why he found himself so painstakingly witcher-less…probably both. Exhaling sharply, the cup slipped from her hand as Drizella’s fingers flew suddenly, almost involuntarily to her neck, where Jaskier somehow only now took notice of a fine, intricately braided leather choker (…had _nothing_ whatsoever to do with what lay south of that…none at _all_ , thankyouverymuch); embossed silver plating twisting and circling the soft black cords. Her eyes squeezed shut momentarily as she gasped openly, but the moment was dissipating as quickly as it had come as she forced her hands back to the surface of the table, fingers splayed, nails biting the soft, scrubbed wood surface.  
  
“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked tentatively, his brow furrowed, unsure whether to reach for her. She took a deep, steadying breath, gazing over his shoulder at something distant.  
  
“I’m fine,” She began, a forced steadiness to her tone, “just the wine I’m sure…” She proffered a bit unconvincingly, but she was already pushing her chair back, dark curtain of wild hair swinging as she stood. Jaskier’s mouth worked a bit as he tried to arrange the suddenly numerous questions in his mind.  
  
“I’ve enjoyed our conversation.” Her velvety voice silenced him. “Perhaps your hulking friend will bless us with his presence tomorrow?” She didn’t wait for an answer as the bards crystaline blue eyes widened ever so slightly. Winking down at him, she turned on her heel and strode from the tavern, leaving Jaskier, for the second time in less than an hour, to collect his scattered wits.  
  
***  
  
Breathing heavily in the expanding twilight outside the inn, Drizella’s fingers flitted once again to the delicate tangle of leather and silver that circled her throat. She didn’t turn as a cloaked figure sauntered over and settled himself against the wall next to her. His face was almost completely obscured by his hood, leaving only a hard, angled expanse of jaw visible that caught the last rays of the sinking sun in a rather ominous way. Silently, she passed him a small purse, still massaging her throat. The man’s hand fluttered over her own, clutching it against the purse, holding it briefly in his.  
  
“I’d be happy to kiss that pain away and call it even, if you like.” He smirked in a low gravelly voice. She made a disgusted sound, wrenching her hand away. Chuckling profanely, he tucked the purse away. “Maybe you’d prefer the bard to do it, eh?” He continued to growl a chuckle, sweeping his cloak tighter around him as she stiffened. “…too bad a witcher’s out of the question…” Her ears pricked as he slowly came around to the point of their transaction and she turned to him then.  
  
“What do you mean?” She breathed in barely more than a whisper, her hands dropping to her sides, fists clenching. The cloaked man re-adjusted his position against the wall, enjoying the drawn silence, the lure of his words.  
  
“The White Wolf ain’t been seen ‘round here for six months…or didn’t the little blue-eyed sparrow tell you?” He drawled in an oily whisper, looking up into her face, relishing the hint of shock…of fear…before pushing off the wall and striding down the darkening gravel path. Yen had better be right about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to try and finish this on Monday, but I feel like I always set goals for how I want a story to turn out and then something totally different happens lol so we'll see! Let me know what you think so far!  
> PS, yeah sorry if 16 days is a totally unrealistic time-frame to make it on horseback from Kaer Morhen to Posada buuuut ima claim creative license...also also...Geralt would not accept Yen's offer to portal him in even if she were to suggest and we all know it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier finds himself between a bit of a rock and a hard place...what else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY coming up for air after binge reading @pukingflowers "No Filter" and if you haven't yet, GODS, you really must read it but do so over a long weekend that you can dedicate to it because it is a 60 chapter PAGE FUCKING TURNER that I couldn't tear my eyes away from.
> 
> Anyways...true to form...this little story that was going to be short and sweet is now probably going to be multi-chapter...but! I want it be all the sword-swinging, Geralt grunting, Jaskier swooning epicness that this ship rightfully demands so, #sorrynotsorry

Jaskier's fingers fumbled slightly on the clasps of the leather case as he tucked his beauty in. His encounter with Drizella plagued his mind as he slung the instrument onto his shoulder and made his way upstairs to his room. There was definitely something unsettling about the way her hands had convulsed toward her throat…something unsettling about _her_. His brow furrowed and the corners of his lips drew down as he trudged upwards. Why had he felt such a blatant comfort in her presence? While it was no great secret that talking to just about anyone who would listen was practically his life’s purpose, even he knew when to rein it in around a perfect stranger…mostly. Why, then had he felt the need to dredge up every waking memory of he and Geralt? (save for a few more intimate details…or so he hoped…he didn’t feel amnesic or dizzy anyway, which was a promising sign that at least those more sensitive memories were still his own) 

Jaskier paused, his hand upon the doorknob to his room and his eyes widened… _unless_ …she was looking for Geralt. Perhaps she wanted something with him, perhaps she wanted something _from_ him…Jaskier could only guess at the possibilities, but none of them were comforting _at all_ , and he found himself very much desiring to be anywhere else-in particular the road that would lead him to Kaer Morhen. Even though Jaskier knew the witcher was perfectly capable of defending himself, it would be imprudent not to at least try to warn him. The certainty with which he made this decision frightened and excited him. Jaskier sighed, hand still resting upon the cool brass of the door knob; his intentions of remaining every bit as stubborn about seeing the witcher again melting away. 

With a wrench, he tugged open the door and set about collecting his things. He meant to leave as soon as possible, though the prospect of traveling at night and utterly alone without even the hope of a reassuring ‘hmm’ to ground him was almost enough to make him change his mind. “Courage, Jaskier…” he muttered to himself, trying to decide if the encouragement was intended to strengthen his nerves or still his madly fluttering, Geralt infested heart. As he tied his meager belongings into a neat bundle, he grimaced as he strapped his dagger beneath his waistcoat; he had never had much love or much finesse with any kind of weaponry but he wasn’t about to go crashing about stupidly un-armed on his own. He tossed a plain woolen cloak around his shoulders and stole a glance at himself in the washstand mirror. His pale periwinkle blue eyes practically glowed in the low lamplight, pink lips parted ever so slightly. He tossed his soft brown tresses out of his eyes with a flick of his head, face set, and strode from the room.  
  
***  
  
Breathing deeply, Jaskier stepped out onto the road, drawing his hood up. He couldn’t be sure where Drizella was staying, or where she would be at this time of night, so he opted for as much discretion as possible. Gazing up at the clear sky, he loped across the dirt track, ducking down an alley that he knew would connect with others to lead him out of the city and onto the road north. It felt utterly foreign and strange to be sneaking about at night without the witcher grumbling and shushing him and he found himself thinking longingly of better times even if they did include him sleeping on the ground in days-old clothing with little to bathe with and even less to eat. They also included Geralt’s handsome chiseled face and the fire flickering over his smooth angular features in the most intimate way. They included someone else to talk to, even if it was begrudgingly tolerated. They included the raw, all encompassing feeling of safety and protection and…altruistic pledge Geralt wouldn’t let anything happen to him…wouldn’t let anything _hurt_ him.Too bad he couldn’t protect him from himself…Jaskier thought painfully as he shoved the thought of his muse aside and tried to reign his thoughts back around to the task at hand. 

He flitted from shadow to shadow, on soft-booted feet, thankfully meeting no one…until…as he rounded the corner of a towering stone building he abruptly found himself staggering back after colliding head on with a warm, dark something. Flinging his arms out behind him, he blinked stars out of his vision. He tasted a metallic wetness on his lower lip where his teeth had dug in. His jaw dropped as huge black shape loomed over him, snorting and stamping as he scrabbled backward. As the creature moved in the moonlight he could make out a beautiful arched neck, four slender legs and a glimmering mane of raven hair. It was a horse.  
  
“Ah-ha-haa…nice pony…” He stammered, attempting a weak smile. The horse reared with an irritable whinny and he scooted violently to the side as a hoof the size of a dinner plate came down in the place his manhood had just vacated. 

“That’s hitting a little below the belt, I think!” He squeaked scrambling backward and pushing himself up on the opposite wall. He turned just in time to see the great beast clatter toward him, digging all four hooves into the dirt as it skidded to a halt with its soft black velvet nose a hairs breadth from Jaskier's. He could just make out a jet-black headstall caging its face, delicate silver plating stamped decoratively into the leather.  
“Whoaaaa, boy…” The horse snorted indignantly, spraying him with…fluid…he spluttered and his eyes widened briefly in understanding as he ducked his head pointedly between the animal’s rear legs. He sucked a sharp, apologetic breath as he looked back into the _mare’s_ soft, dusky eyes. “Sorry, _sorry!_ ” He hissed. His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the beast’s penetrating, seal-skin orbs. He found himself quickly re-evaluating the black leather, the intricate silver designs, the billowing black waves of its mane. There was something strangely familiar about…  
  
CRACK!  
  
Jaskier blinked after image out of his eyes as Drizella’s face materialized in front of him. Before he could blink or even entertain the idea of speaking, she had snatched both of his wrists and clicked a pair of delicate silver shackles around them.  
  
“Darling…” He croaked, unable to remain silent at the gesture,”...much as I appreciate the sentiment, I’m not so sure you’re setting _quite_ the right mood for…ow!” He broke off painfully as she tugged hard on the cuffs with a glare. Jaskier followed the silver chain that dangled from his wrists, his eyes widening as he watched her fingers fasten the other ends of the chain to the choker around her neck. She leered at him as she gave the equipment a hearty tug; perhaps to prove just how sturdy and unrelenting it was, or perhaps simply for theatrics. Whichever the reason, the result was the same as Jaskier stood rooted to the spot, blue eyes boring holes into her face. 

“So, is this, erm…the part where you explain to me what the fuck you’re doing? Or should I tell a few knock, knock jokes? Break up the tension a bit?” His words came out surprisingly even keeled, despite the torrent of uncertainty seething inside him, but at least she hadn’t hurt him…yet. With a growl, she wrapped her fist into the chain, tugging Jaskier closer, bearing down on him. He gulped at that.  
  
“You’re going to take me to Geralt of Rivia, and if you refuse, you’ll get to find out just how deep the waters of The Great Sea _really_ are.”  
  
***

Jaskier’s chin bumped uncomfortably against his chest and he jerked awake once more with a snort. He had lost count of the number of times his exhausted body had him dropping off in spite of his immensely uncomfortable position; bumping along bareback astride an animal that, under any other circumstances would have been considered to be quite a strikingly fine bit of horse-flesh. Not so, with his hands shackled and bound to the split silver chains of reins that connected seamlessly like reins to the mare’s headstall…to _Drizella’s_ headstall. They jangled softly, the sound strangely magnified in the silence in which they traveled along the north road. It had been several hours since she had chained him, threatened him, and spirited them both out of Posada at a brisk pace. 

He had spent the latter part of the time attempting to demand answers, complaining, and threatening her not to try anything rash that would damage his lute, but it had all been met with nothing more than a snort and a now almost unbearable silence. With a cough, the bard threw his head back and sighed exasperatedly up at the stars as the mare plodded briskly on. He was tired and thirsty, His back hurt, his throat hurt, and…other things hurt….he wasn’t accustomed to riding, particularly without a saddle and the chafe…gods help him. He opened his mouth and decided to try once more to get her to stop.  
  
“Not that this isn’t the absolute _highlight_ of my day…because, believe me, there’s little I enjoy _more_ than a good bareback ride…” He scoffed, stomach flip-flopping briefly as Geralt’s face flashed across his mind’s eye. _'Ugh, stuff that one away, Jaskier'_ He thought hurriedly. Drizella tossed her head annoyedly. 

“…but if we keep on this way, you will be left with an unconscious bard in very short order…” He tilted his head to the side so he could lock eyes with one of her large brown ones. Abruptly, he felt himself stumbling backwards and would have found himself ass down in the dirt if the now-human form of Drizella hadn’t whipped around at the last second and tugged him back forward until their noses almost touched.  
  
“You say that as if it would be a bad thing…” She deadpanned, releasing the chains and tossing her great wave of hair irritably. Jaskier huffed a vexed sigh and dragged his lute back up onto his shoulder where it had slid to the ground during his rather unceremonious dismount. He watched her tentatively as she swaggered to the side of the road, apparently searching for something. Jaskier massaged his wrists; he was liking this arrangement less and less and particularly disliked the idea of being used this way. 

He wasn’t even certain where Kaer Morhen was, having never been there. He was beginning to feel more like witcher-bait and the whole concept was becoming quite unsettling. He was about to open his mouth again to say so, when she spoke first, apparently locating whatever it was she had been looking for and motioning him to follow her. As if he had any choice…

They were walking down a small side trail that was almost completely obscured by undergrowth and Jaskier drew his cloak tighter about him, avoiding snagging branches and tree roots. They emerged presently into a small clearing and Drizella finally stopped, un-slinging a small bundle from her shoulders that doubled as a saddle-bag when she was a horse. 

“We will camp here.” She said tritely. He lowered his lute carefully to the forest floor before dropping his own belongings next to it. His could feel his head was on the verge of exploding once more with unasked questions, and he tried to organize them before speaking. What seemed to be the most important ones tumbled from his lips in a rush;  
  
“Okay, look…before we go any further with this…ludicrous… ‘you’re going to take me to see Geralt of Rivia’…quest _thing_ …I feel like the least you owe me is an explanation…Why? What do you want with Geralt? Why _me?_ And What the _fuck_ are you??” He broke off breathing heavily, not taking his blue eyes from her as she turned slowly to look at him. She sighed, taking a step closer, the silver chain glittering ethereally in the dew-ridden grass beneath them.  
  
“I have it in good confidence that he can help me…that he is different… Not a mindless killing machine. This same individual also told me where I could find _you_ …said you had a connection with the witcher…” Her voice washed over him soft and even…he couldn’t even begin to think of who she would have spoken with. What kind of connection? Her lips were curving in a smile and he flushed a bit, realizing he had accidentally spoken that part out loud. She did not dignify the question with an answer, merely folded her arms under her breasts and cocked her hips to the side. Jaskier blew out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding and rubbed the back of his sore neck..  
  
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you…and perhaps I should have said so sooner, so apologies too for your trouble, but…I have not seen Geralt in quite a while…” He flexed his fists a bit nervously, worrying his lower lip.  
  
“And, _why_ didn’t you say so sooner?” She asked, that infuriatingly knowing smile practically cracking her face in two.  
  
“Well… _because_ …” His mouth worked a bit uselessly, searching for an explanation, but she instead provided the words for him;  
  
“Because you were worried what I would do…worried for him…” Jaskier dropped his eyes to the dirt, his cheeks flushing again.  
“If I know Geralt, he’s a hundred leagues from here, plastered in Gods knows what and elbows deep in a bloody keg of Cintran ale…” Jaskier said softly, just managing to keep the waver out of his voice. 

“You still haven’t really told me what it is you want us for or why?” Her smug smile took on a slightly sympathetic look and she took a few steps further toward him, her hands drifting instead to her ample hips.  
  
“That question does deserve an answer, but not tonight.” She took another long breath as he waited for her to go on. “I’m a Kelpie, Jaskier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update again before the week is out but my muggle job keeps meh busy...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunition! And lot's of "Dammit, Jaskier!" but that's cannon right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm home sick today, hoping the 'vid hasn't finally caught up with me, so here's an update. I added the end of chapter 2 and here's a good chunk of chapter 3, but I need to lay down so I'll try to finish tomorrow. Oivey.
> 
> *Edit* Chap 3 DONE-ZO! I'm done posting partial chapters now, pinky swear...I don't even know how that got to be a thing...

(approx. 8 months prior)  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
_… “Jaskier! MOVE!” Geralt’s voice rang out as he charged up the slope, raising his crossbow aloft. The bard was scrabbling and sliding as he ran as fast as his legs would carry him away from the enormous griffin bearing down behind him, cruel steel talons glinting in the light. They had made camp the night before on a level outcrop of stone, surrounded more or less by steep gravel embankments. The bard had managed to disturb the great beast after stumbling out of camp for a fucking piss and now it was hell-bent on tearing him limb from limb. Geralt skidded behind a boulder as the Griffin shrieked, wheeling in a low arc and forcing him to dive. Without missing a beat, he rolled out from behind the huge rock and whirled his cross-bow, taking aim, but as he did so a wall of fear-scent crashed into his nose and everything seemed to happen in slow motion;  
A pained cry ripped from Jaskier’s lungs as razor-sharp talons closed around his ribs, and a an almighty jolt shook the ground as the half-bird, half-beast took flight once more. Geralt watched in horror as Jaskier struggled between the beast’s talons that encircled him, twisting his hands behind him in a desperate attempt to reach his dagger. He watched as the Griffin bore them higher, his finger poised on the trigger, willing the damned thing to turn.   
  
With an air-splitting TWANG, Geralt released the bolt which lodged itself in under the monster’s right wing but not before a struggling Jaskier had somehow managed to free himself from the griffin’s clutches. All at once, everything sped back up as Geralt squinted skyward, his heart pounding. Jaskier had wriggled out from under its claws and scrambled up around the beast’s leg just as Geralt’s arrow pierced its side. With an ear-splitting screech of pain, the monster’s fierce eyes rolled, its wings seized up and it began to lose altitude, plummeting toward the earth. Swinging into motion with a string of flowery curses, Geralt grabbed his bow and high-tailed it down to the foot of the rocky crag, hoping against hope that the bard would be alive when he got there.  
Panting, the witcher fumbled for purchase in his haste to reach the downed beast. The griffin was still breathing raggedly as he drew level. Raising his silver sword, he dispatched it quickly with a swift slice to the back of the neck. Dropping his weapon, he began to circle the great black and gold mountain of fur and feathers, looking for an opening.  
  
“Jaskier!” He called…no answer. “Dammit, JASKIER!” A groan; pained and listless, issued from somewhere under the beast’s right wing. Heaving the appendage aside, he could just make out a blue silk-clad forearm. A small wave of relief washed over him as he clasped Jaskier’s fingers. Bracing his right foot against the animal’s ribcage, he shoved hard and tugged on the wrist of the trapped bard. With a yelp of pain that sent a heart-wrenching shock down his spine, he withdrew Jaskier’s body from under the griffin’s massive hide. It wasn’t good; there were several fairly deep gashes around his middle where the beast’s huge talons had sunk in and the arm he had just tugged on, he realized with a grimace, was dislocated. The thing that worried him most was the blood; griffin wounds were notorious for bleeding profusely, even among witchers. With a grunt, he began sliding off his bracers and breast-plate until he was down to his tunic. Not bothering with the buttons, he tore the garment from his shoulders and wrapped it tightly around a slurring Jaskier, somewhat stemming the outpouring of blood. He tried not to focus on the grayish-green tinge of the bard’s skin as he knelt next to him. “Jaskier,” He whispered urgently as the other man’s eyes fluttered weakly, “stay with me…” he urged, slinging his right arm under his legs and his left under his shoulders, hoisting him up bridally from the ground. He needed to get back to Roach, and a potion to slow the bleeding that he knew resided in her saddle-bags. “Hold tight to me…” He grated, not daring a second glance at the bard’s face; forcing a lid on the seething bubble of what he could only acknowledge as fear twisting his gut. The long-stifled emotion felt strange and foreign, but the bard’s pallid features drew it slowly out of dormancy like poison from a wound. Slowly, he could feel shaking fingers slide weakly around his neck…too weak…barely holding on. Hurriedly he kicked his armor into a pile and toed it behind a boulder that he could return to later. “Jaskier…talk to me…” He whispered huskily as he turned up toward the slope, golden eyes searching for the path that would take him to the main track that snaked around the ridge and back to their camp.  
  
“Hmm…s-sonow…you wammeto talk? Makeupyermine...” the bard murmured deliriously. Geralt’s mouth twisted in anguish, his face screwed up as he felt the smear of blood against his abdomen, the smell of iron almost drowning him.  
  
“Consider it a temporary pass.” He grated, finally chancing a glance at the bards face as he jogged endlessly upward, ignoring the dull ache of exertion in his legs.  
Geralt ground his teeth as Jaskier leaned into him, his skin worryingly cool against Geralt's chest. Geralt could feel his usually slow and steady heartbeat racing slightly, and he tried desperately not to focus on the shallowness of Jaskier's breathing. Geralt felt his fingers tighten around his neck…it was a nice feeling even if the circumstances were rather poor.  
  
“S’much for d-damsel in distress…” Jaskier murmured, his bleary eyes clearly straining to hold on, to remain conscious. “I promise’f I make it through this…won’ make you kissme…” he trailed off, his head dropping back against Geralt's forearm. Geralt felt his mouth twitch in a smile that softened his worry-creased brow, a surge of affection washing over him. He quickened his pace and swallowed the sickening lump rising in his throat. Geralt glanced down once more to see Jaskier's shaking fingers drift unsteadily to his face to trace a line across his strong, lightly stubbled jaw, before his arm flopped down and he passed out…_  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
…Geralt sighed heavily as the memory faded. He should have just fucking kissed the idiot…or better yet, sent him away the day they left Tol Blathana so he wouldn’t have gotten into trouble in the first place. Trouble was an occupational hazard of traveling with a witcher, and the bard’s innocently blundering nature didn’t help their odds at all. He stooped, retrieving his saddle bags and threw them across Roach’s back with perhaps a bit more force than was warranted. The mare swung her head to the side, offering him a rep _roach_ ful look. He cocked an eyebrow at her;  
  
"Still living up to your title, I see." He scoffed, but his voice was warm, “Sorry…bit distracted…” She gave him an ‘apology accepted’ nicker and dropped her gaze. Not taking his hand from her hindquarters he allowed his fingers to trail over her smooth rich sienna coat, gliding over her withers and tousling her forelock as he strode around to face her. 

“What do you think?” He crooned, scratching her cheeks, “Am I out of my fucking mind?...” She gave him a level look. 

“…On second thought…don’t answer that.” He sighed heavily and filed the thought of his ‘damsel’ away. What he really needed to do was get this bloody apology over with and leave it at that. He wasn’t going to wash Jaskier’s blood from his hands again…it’d been the hardest thing he’d ever had to remove. With a grunt he swung into the saddle and clicked Roach on.  
  
The first problem with this resolution presented itself not three hours into midmorning. With a gentle tug, he reigned Roach in at the edge of the road, straightening in his saddle, ears pricked and nostrils flared. He was close to the village at this point and the usual smells of civilization were all still there…made stronger as he continued to close the distance…but something else stung his nose. It was earthy and boggy-smelling, like an old abandoned mill-pond…it wasn’t pungent enough for fish, and Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he knew there to be a body of water like that along this particular stretch of road. His golden eyes scanned the side of the track, the stand of trees beyond, searching. He ‘hmm’d’ as his gaze fell upon the small winding rabbit path to his left. Dismounting, he led Roach to the edge of the tree line and tied her off.  
  
“Mind yourself. I’ll be back.” The distant calls of a few scattered birds reached his ears, a rustle as the breeze disturbed the grass, and a faint jingling from up ahead. Geralt’s brow furrowed and his hand drifted back to loosen his sword as he crept forward. As he came around the next bend in the path, his eyes widened at the scene that met him.  


A beautiful black mare tossed and stamped in the clearing before him, muscles rippling impressively as she swished her long ebony tail. But it was the figure sitting astride her back that had his jaw clenching and his fingers instinctively tightening around his sword. 

Jaskier, though presumably unhurt at first glance, sat bound and gagged upon the mare’s back, a long silver dual set of chains connecting his wrists to the Kelpie’s headstall. Fuck. _Double_ fuck. The mare snorted in Geralt’s direction and Jaskier’s head whipped around. He made a strained, muffled garble against the wad of fabric in his mouth and shook his head violently, trying to communicate. Jaskier was her prisoner; Kelpies only took prisoners when they wanted something. What a Kelpie could want from a bard was beyond Geralt, which left him with Jaskier’s desperate groans and head shakes. 

The pieces clicked; the Kelpie didn't need a bard...she needed a witcher...for what fucked-up reason he could only guess at, for she had clearly gone to great lengths to ensure Geralt was the one.The question of why remained, but he would deal with that later. Trying to quell the tirade of emotions that bubbled in his gut as he looked on at Jaskier, he took a few tentative steps closer, eyes once again surveying the silver shackles around his wrists.  
  
“Well-played, demoness…you have my attention. Let the bard go.” The great black beauty turned toward him and gave her slender neck a shake, prancing in place. “Are you okay, Jaskier?” He addressed the bard without taking his eyes off the mare’s face.  
  
Jaskier rolled his eyes at these words; no, _‘okay’_ was not on the list of emotions he was feeling right now. _Exhilarated_ in spite of himself at seeing the witcher, _useless_ as a trussed turkey, _relieved_ that Geralt was there, but _furious_ with him at the same time _and_ rather badly bruised…so, no. He was not okay. He _was_ actually a tad relieved at being gagged at the moment, because it hid the idiotic smile he could feel in the already taught muscles of his face upon seeing the other man. Bollocks. With a groan, he merely nodded down at Geralt and tried to reach his hands up to loosen the fabric cutting into his face, but Drizella jerked her head and tugged his wrists out of reach. With a snarl, Jaskier kicked her fiercely in the flanks. She screamed and reared, and Jaskier slid off her back like a sack of old potatoes, landing roughly on the ground as she transformed with a crack like a whip.  
  
“Enough.” Geralt grated, striding over and offering his hand to Jaskier who went to accept it and instead found himself recoiling in pain; a sharp burning sensation super-heating his palms. Hot tears sprung in the corners of his aquamarine eyes as he glanced fearfully from Drizella to Geralt, whos burnished amber eyes widened.  
  
“Ah, ah, ah…look but do not touch, witcher. The bard and I have a rather special bond, now.”

Geralt let his hand drop, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he bore down on Drizella, golden eyes flashing.  
“What did you do?” Unperturbed by the great mass of muscle and flashing silver sword glinting menacingly in her direction, Drizella raised her chin defiantly as Geralt stepped toward her.   
“Do you really not know, witcher? Let me guess…” She hissed, planting her hands on her hips and leering up at him, “…your eagerness for coin in your wallet and another proverbial monster’s head ticked off your never-ending trophy list has left you with little to no insight on what drives the beings you so readily hack away? Never considered for a moment that we, that _I_ might actually take pleasure in more than just being a menace of the world?” Geralt’s mouth twisted sourly and his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword but he forced himself to stay calm. He took a moment, allowing Jaskier’s outraged mewling to wash her stinging words from his ears.  
Drizella knew she had pushed things a bit far, but her entire life was riding on whether or not he would help her, so a little ‘shock and awe’ couldn’t hurt. If it all went to shit, and he refused, she could still threaten to drown his bard…from what little she had gleaned of the witcher’s character in the last ten minutes, Jaskier was proving to be a better bargaining chip with each passing second. She could practically see the cogs turning in the witcher’s mind as his eyes bore holes into her. He stepped closer still, until his face was barely an inch from her own;  
  
“You’ll forgive me, _my lady_ , if it’s difficult to stroll platonically away from a beast snatching children from the very arms of their mothers as they sleep…to have a bloody fucking cup of tea with a brute who would just as soon rip your heart out as look at you…to look the other way as a horse as black as night, under the guise of a handsome stranger lures the unwitting into dark places, taking what he wants and drowning the evidence…” His words lashed like a whip as he spat them at her feet, his breaths deep and ragged. “I do what I can, for my part, and it is enough.” 

Her deep, nut-brown eyes never left his face, but she took a step back…relenting. Her words were intended to catch his attention, the rest was up to fate. Stepping back to Jaskier, she extended a hand to him and hauled him up. She had promised Yen that she wouldn’t harm either of them, after all. She held the witcher’s gaze as she un-tied the gag around Jaskier’s neck and he spat the cloth bitterly, gasping and wincing and massaging his cheeks, (‘Sweet _misery_ , is that rotten fish?’). As the bard fussed to right himself, she spoke again;  
  
“When a Kelpie takes a prisoner, he or she is the only one who can touch their skin without inflicting pain…a rather convenient insurance policy, in my case…” If this information surprised Geralt, he gave no outward sign. "You’ve got to be fucking joking…oh gods…" Jaskier groaned under his breath.  
  
“And what is your case? Pray tell?” Geralt grated, sparing a glance for Jaskier who was brushing dirt from his breeches, an angry red fabric burn extending from the corners of his lips to his ears. She didn’t answer him right away, merely strode toward him as far as the length of chain would allow, a stubborn look fixed on her face. “You should let him go,” Geralt said softly, still staring at Jaskier, “You have me…I will come quietly with or without an explanation if you set him free.”  
  
“Not a chance, witcher…” She began as Jaskier made his way slowly toward them, “You’re little damsel is going to remain good and distressed until we see this job through. You know what I am capable of, should you refuse…” Geralt barely had time to process this statement when Jaskier joined their circle, clearly having regained some of his pluck. He donned a wide smile that was only slightly diminished by the fading red abrasions on his cheeks.  
  
“Ah! Geralt!” He clapped the witcher on the shoulder perhaps a bit harder than was necessary, eliciting a sharp grunt from the other man. “I see you’ve met Drizella…really rather charming girl underneath all the scary, water-demon, nightmare stuff…and aptitude for abducting bards.” He gave the shackles about his wrists a jingle, shooting a pointed look at the Kelpie next to him before turning to the center of the clearing and rambling right on, throwing his arms dramatically. “’Course, it’s become a rather commonplace thing for me…y’know…making ‘friends’ with psycho, magic beings who drag me off in the night to Melitele knows where, and then tell me to fuck right off in the name of their ceaseless emotional constipation…”  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
“Ohhhh, ho, ho no! You’re not just going to ‘Jaskier!’ yourself out of this one…I mean, what are you even bloody…”  
  
“Dammit, Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice finally cut him off and he turned sharply just in time to see Drizella’s hands scrabbling at the silver embossed leather choker around her neck. Her eyes were wide and she was gasping for breath. Running to her, Jaskier put a hand on her as she lurched forward, still fighting for each breath and tugging at the necklace.  
  
“What the fuck is this?” Geralt demanded, clutching Drizella’s shoulders and easing her to the ground.  
  
“I don’t know…” Jaskier whispered back desperately, “It happened two days ago, in the tavern where she first found me…but this time seems worse…Drizella!” He squeezed her shoulder, willing her back to them. Slowly, her breaths lengthened and the muscles of her face relaxed as she collapsed back onto her seat in the dirt.  
  
“He’s angry…” She whispered, a tear sliding down her cheek, “He knows I’m gone…”  
  
“Who’s he?” Jaskier asked, rocking forward on his haunches to steady her as her body wavered unsteadily. She took a few more deep breaths before answering;  
  
“His name is Verin Alda…” She spoke in a hoarse whisper, her eyes flickering knowingly to Geralt who immediately swore openly. Jaskier could only look on, for once rendered utterly speechless. “He’s the one who haltered me…and there are others…” Her voice cracked with emotion as fresh tears sprang in her eyes. With an effort, Geralt returned her gaze.  
  
“They told me he was dead…” He seethed, jaw clenching furiously.  
  
“No…” Her hand squeezed his forearm, “The Black Viper lives.”  
On cue, the tension finally proving too much, Jaskier snatched an opportunity to break in;  
  
“This little..reunion… _thing_ …is quite touching, really, but who exactly is Verin Alda? What’s he got to do with you? What’s that got to do with me? And what…” He made a wide circular gesture with his arms, “has all of _that_ got to do with him?” He ended by pointing to Geralt, blue eyes meeting gold, searching him for the first time since they’d crashed rather unexpectedly into each other. Geralt suddenly couldn’t help a sharp wave of fondness that rose inside him. He suddenly found himself realizing how much he had actually missed the bard’s irritatingly smooth tenor voice. Drizella’s eyes remained on Geralt, and the witcher stared at Jaskier for a long moment before dropping his gaze and huffing a sigh.  
  
“Verin went through the trials at the same time as me…School of the Viper. Last I was told, he hadn’t survived the mutations. He was cunning, arrogant and self-serving…to a fault.” He trailed off, lost in thought. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, weighing and measuring, but he wasn’t ready so say anymore just yet. The thought must have registered on his face, Jaskier taking it as a cue to speak once again, but Drizella cut him off;  
  
“There is a work camp…in Kovir…hundreds of us…elves, selkies, dwarves…more come in every day…to replace the ones whos last breaths are utterly spent in the shadow of his cruelty.” Her voice shook as she broke off, tears still leaking silently down her cheeks.  
  
“How did you escape?” Geralt asked, turning to her once more, “From what I do know of Kelpies is that once haltered…with silver…” His eyes flickered to the woman’s throat, “…they are bound to their masters until released.” Drizella swallowed thickly.  
  
“I was being used for an errand to Aedirn; had a chance encounter with one, Yennefer of Vengerberg…” Geralt stiffened slightly, and Jaskier’s eyes narrowed. “…Needless to say, it’s becoming increasingly apparent that the effects of that potion are wearing off…” She massaged her throat again, eyes dropping to her lap. “She told me it would give me enough time to find the bard…” She nodded at Jaskier, “…and if I could find him, I would surely find _you_. I don’t think I need stress, that given the nature of our antagonist, you are our only hope.” She had stopped crying, and she was barely drawing breath for a different reason now, her eyes once more studying his face.  
  
Geralt hissed, pushing himself up and sheathing his sword roughly, striding moodily to the edge of the clearing. Jaskier reached out and squeezed Drizella’s shoulder with a reassuring look. She turned her eyes on him and accepted the hand he offered, pulling her back to her feet. A hint of a smile tweaked the corners of her lips. Jaskier winked.  
  
“Oh, ho, hoo, I may not have witcher senses but I can smell the sweet tang of this grand escapade…I can hear the coin-laden pockets of the masses already, calling for the story of Geralt of Rivia; sympathizer of the weak and down-trod… _‘So dare you call me monster?... The fair maiden asked…with naught but a premonition looong paaaast?’_ Oh, bloody hell I’d sell my knickers for a quill and notepad right about now…” Jaskier continued to hum placidly to himself as he strode toward where Geralt stood; as far as he could before a light clink of straining metal links brought him to a halt. A thousand emotions fought for purchase at the forefront of his mind as he stared at the witcher’s back. “So, what do you say Geralt? Willing to let bygones be bygones in the interest of old times? Pretend to be friends for a bit?” He broke off as the witcher turned toward him, an unreadable expression on his still rather dashing face. “…is it the word _‘friend’_ specifically? Not ready for the commitment? Because I’m sure I could come up with something better…” Geralt walked slowly toward him, closing the distance. “How about ‘mate’, or ‘chum’…oh blast, that isn’t any more fearsome is it?...” He was babbling now, but it was better than rampaging about what was really bothering him and Geralt was now a foot from him. “… ‘comrade’?...” Jaskier breathed as the witcher slowed to a stop a hairs breadth from his face. He could feel the taller man’s warm breath tumble over his cheeks, eyes pouring liquid gold into his deep pools of blue, and he struggled to keep his nerve, the heat rising in his cheeks.  
  
“I’m not your friend, Jaskier… _because_ I want to be something more…and that really _does_ scare the living shit out of me.”  
  
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Presently, Jaskier managed to produce a few small, clipped squeaky sounds as Geralt allowed a rare smile onto his lips. He knew this proclamation was likely a bad decision, born of the persistent nagging pain that had plagued him for six months, but fuck it. The bard reached a hand toward him and he ducked away just in time, turning on his heel with a smug smile.  
  
“Ger- _alt_ …you wily minx…you’re actually going to do this to me, right now…like… _this_?” A frustrated Jaskier brandished the silver chains connecting his wrists with a groan. Loping to the witcher’s side, he turned his eyes up to Geralt’s still-grinning face. “Does it make me a masochist if I damn this bloody thing to hell and kiss you anyway?” He whispered.  
  
“Yes.” The witcher growled, a strange hungry sound. Jaskier groaned.  
At the other end of the chain, and likely close enough to have heard everything, Drizella had recovered herself and was tapping her foot in the dirt, a smirk on her face.  
  
“So,” Jaskier began cheerfully, clapping his hands together, “Where do we find this wicked witcher of the north?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me a comment...I don't even care if it's about the bloody fic, I could use some cheering up.
> 
> #sorrynotsorry Wizard of Oz ref


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the Geraskier banter and some love from my OC character, Drizella…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh! Alllll the fluuuuffff...and a hint of smut at the end, just FYI  
> Second, I defs quote some of the lyrics to "Her Sweet Kiss" which defs belongs to Sonya Belousova, Giona Ostinelli, and Joey Batey…  
> My rhymes are defs not as good (what even is 'defs'?)  
> ...especially after wine...
> 
> Hokay, so enjoyeee!

They had recovered Roach at the edge of the thicket and Drizella, muttering about ‘lovesick idiots’ had returned to her equine form. Jaskier was once again settled upon her back with his lute perched upon his knees, humming and plucking a few idle chords. The witcher didn’t have to see the bard’s face to mark each and every moment Jaskier’s eyes flickered to him as Roach plodded pointedly a few steps ahead, asserting some sort of dominant role in the presence of the new mare.  
  
“Geralt…”  
And there it was. Nine-and-a-half minutes of not talking was Jaskier’s new best time. Just long enough to be considered mildly concerning, but not long enough to warrant true alarm. 

Geralt should have known it would be too good to last; he also had a pretty good idea of what weighed on the bard’s mind…and he wasn’t sure he knew how to answer.  
  
“No.” He replied simply to a contemptuous scoff from behind him.  
  
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say…unless witchers can read minds? And I have to say, I don’t think I’m _quite_ that comfortable with…”  
  
“Jaskier…”  
  
“Sorry! It’s just…I think we should talk? Like, try to be serious?...and if you use the words ‘shit’ or ‘shovel’ I’ll…I’ll…”  
Geralt smiled in spite of himself. With a defeated sigh, Jaskier fizzled into silence. The scrape of hooves on gravel was magnified a hundred times.  
  
“I’m sorry Jaskier. Sometimes it’s too easy to take your personal garbage out on the ones you care too much about…I shouldn’t have said what I said then…and I shouldn’t have said what I said in that clearing.” He didn’t turn. He couldn’t face the pain. There had been too much blood on the side of that rocky cliff after the griffin…if there were a lesser of two evils…this was surely it.  
  
“Could you _be_ any more opaque, Geralt? You can’t drop this bomb on me and then suddenly expect the damage to un-do itself with a few gray-colored words…and on top of that, I don’t believe you…I _can’t_ …” Jaskier’s voice, all matter-of-fact and full of confidence as it often was, seemed suddenly stolen away as though a whisper of his very soul had been ripped from him. After a moment of silence, he spoke again;  
  
“Tell me something that’s real, Geralt…or I can go right back to perceiving things the way you left them on that mountain…” Jaskier trailed off in a low whisper that even the witcher had to strain to hear. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clenched his jaw and reined Roach to a halt. Drizella didn’t wait for Jaskiers tug on the chain as she drew level. Geralt sighed heavily and turned in his saddle, brow furrowed, golden eyes not quite meeting watery blues.  
  
“The day I dragged you off that mountain…after the griffin…when I thought that you might not make it out alive…was the first time I tasted fear since the day my mother left me in Kaer Morhen…and even that seemed to pale in comparison next to the wave of sickening horror that gripped me… as though my very life’s breath were stolen away…the horror that I would not only have to live in a world without you, but with the memory that the fault would have been mine…” He was breathing heavily now as he finally turned his eyes upon the bard’s face. Jaskier stared unblinking back at him, as though he were seeing him for the first time. His rosy cheeks were flushed, his bottom lip quivering slightly. Geralt could’ve devoured every inch.  
Jaskier took a moment to admire the face that he had spent so many years staring avidly at from something akin to the backseat. It wasn’t that the witcher’s words themselves shocked him; it was the sound of them being spoken aloud, and the way they sounded on his perfect, pale lips that sent a shockwave down the bard’s spine. It would be a downright lie to say the nature of the words surprised him; he had learned throughout the course of their relationship to read in between the lines of the few words, and nondescript ‘hmms’ and grunts that the witcher offered. He learned to decipher his body language as easily as if he had spoken aloud. It was for these reasons that Jaskier had felt the shift in their relationship what felt like an age ago; more frequent wandering looks, the rare but genuine smile that only he seemed to have the power to bring about even though they were usually canceled out immediately by some various annoyance or another, and even in the careless way he had involved himself with Yennifer. That, and his tantrum on the mountain were, indeed, likely the most childish ways of trying and failing to keep Jaskier at arm’s length, but he was willing to make his peace with them. Still, he had never actually expected to hear the music…and it was indescribable.  
  
“Well, ‘non-friend’…that’s more words you’ve spoken in sixty seconds than in the twenty-two years we’ve known each other.” Geralt came to with a snort.  
  
“You’re rubbing off on me.”  
  
“Not yet…maybe soon…” Jaskier smiled lasciviously, blue eyes for fucking days. Drizella snorted and stamped her hoof. Jaskier shot her a withering look before speaking again;  
“Geralt, I know what you’re trying to say…what you’re trying to do…what you’ve _tried_ to do…but you can stop being so bloody noble. I can look after myself; I can decide for myself where to go…who I want to spend my time with…which _limb_ I would be willing to lose first if the situation called for it… _Joking! Joking!_ ” He threw his hands up at a pointed glare from the other man. “…I can even dress myself without help on a good day…look, the point is, Geralt…don’t make this decision _for_ me…”  
The witcher’s golden gaze felt utterly melted away under the intensity of the look Jaskier now fixed him with.  
  
“You won’t be undressing yourself…or likely dressing again with any urgency when those cuffs come off…” Geralt growled, a smile quirking the corners of his lips as he nudged Roach back into motion, leaving a gaping and squirming Jaskier in his wake.  
  
***  
  
“Gods, I’ll hardly be able to sit for a week with or without your help if I have to carry on like this for much longer…” Jaskier fidgeted uncomfortably again, but there were only so many times he could re-adjust his sitting position before it was nothing but throbbing, stiff muscles all throughout his backside. “Drizella, _darling_ , I wish you would entertain our little chat about a proper perch for me…what use is one’s manhood if it’s ground into a miserable pulp?” The mare snorted at exactly the same time Geralt did, which was uncharacteristically lucky. “Just a blanket perhaps? That’s soft, lightweight…not too overbearing is it?” He wheedled, craning around to look her in the eye. She chose this moment to jerk her head forward, sending Jaskier face-first into her neck. She and Roach whinnied raucously as the bard pushed himself back up grumbling and spluttering. “Fine…” He growled, “…at least let me down to walk…nay, to _attempt_ to walk for a while…”  
The mare obliged, slowing to a halt so that Jaskier could slide a bit ungracefully from her back. Geralt gently tugged Roach around to wait and tried not to chuckle openly at the way the bard staggered upright on bowed legs. After a dramatic fuss of scratching and moaning about his legs never being the same, the party moved on. A little over an hour later, the road began to curve steadily westward and Geralt announced that they had reached the border between Tol Blathana and Kaedwen. The plan was to continue west through the mountain gap and into Redania. From there, they could catch a boat across the Gulf of Praxeda to Kovir. It was getting into early evening by that time and the bard decided to switch tactics.  
  
“So, do either of you have some grand plan as to where we’ll be staying tonight? I dunno about you two, but a stiff drink and a soft mattress would really hit the spot…” Jaskier made a show of massaging his backside with a groan. A soft crackle a flash of dark hair brought Drizella to his side. She looked ahead, addressing Geralt;  
  
“I don’t think civilization is a good idea…there’s no guarantee he’s not looking for me.” She said uneasily.  
  
“Uh-huh!” Jaskier puffed dramatically, “You can turn into a horse, for godssake… _blend in_ …”  
  
“Anyone he sends to find me will know what I am, dimwit, and this,” She jangled the sliver chain roughly, “is not the sort of common place tack you see on any old peasant’s or even merchant’s mount…” Jaskier rolled his eyes.  
  
“Well, I am not pledging to subsist on grass either, so unless you’ve got a bloody _banquet_ hidden beneath that bosom of yours…”  
  
“Enough!” Geralt growled from ahead of them. He had stopped Roach and turned to face them and he and the mare both, comically, shared the same unamused look as Jaskier and Drizella both scowled back. The witcher heaved a sigh;  
“I hate to agree with the bard on this one, but he’s right. We don’t have enough supplies, and the road ahead is long. More than that, the next decent town won’t be for several days likely.” He caught the look on Drizella’s face; he knew the look, hated that it struck an all-too familiar chord. Fear. “Don’t worry…” He re-assured her, “We stick together. We stay safe.”  
  
***  
  
The sun had dipped low on the horizon as the four of them made their way ever nearer to the largely dwarven city of Vergen. Begrudgingly, Drizella had removed one of the cuffs from Jaskier’s wrist, so that it appeared that the bard was merely leading his mount along as they entered the throng of evening noise in the outer rim of the city. They largely followed Geralt’s lead as he seemed to know his way around; the mass of people parting easily around them. Presently, they came to a stop outside a dusty inn tucked down a side street bearing the quaint title of ‘The Copper Cricket’. A large rusted copper likeness of the insect dancing on the rim of a mug of ale swung above the door.  
  
“I’ll meet you by the stables.” Geralt said, ducking through the door to see about a room. Nodding, Jaskier led Drizella and Roach around the side of the white-washed structure and through a large rolling side door. The smell of mildew and straw and manure hung thick in the air as they entered, and once they were sure no one was around, Drisella transformed, eyes continuing to flicker from corner to corner.  
  
“Would you _relax_ already?…” Jaskier sighed, cocking an eyebrow at her, “Not many people willing to pick a fight with a big, scary witcher…” She shot him a disparaging glance as she continued her wary appraisal of the room. “Besides,” he continued, leading Roach into an empty stall and fussing with the saddle girth, “you said it yourself…if Alda’s always replacing his workers…they can’t mean all that much to him…so what’s another missing Kelpie, eh?” With an effort he swung the heavy leather saddle over the stall’s railing, catching the look on her face as he leaned over the high cantle; it was pinched in a tight grimace and there were tears threatening her eyes. He came out from around the stall gate and laid a hand on her shoulder. “What is it?” She took a few steadying breaths to compose herself before answering.  
  
“He will always come for me…” She said in a croaky whisper, “…Do you know what he told me…in the moments before I drugged his drink? He said…I’m his _special_ girl…the _ride_ of his _life_ …his prized…m-mount…” The tears were streaming over her cheeks now as she spoke through gritted teeth. “…funny…” She swallowed thickly, “…he didn’t even taste the difference…just winked as he downed his mug like a drunken pig…” Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and reached his chained hand to hers, drawing her into his shoulder and sinking them slowly onto a bale of straw; even the bard knew when words were too much. They stayed like that for a long moment, Jaskier’s shoulder growing damp as she cried silently into his sleeve. Presently, she pulled away, eyes bloodshot and puffy and reached her fingers around the remaining cuff on his wrist. She unsnapped the silver circlet and slowly wound the chain into her lap. With a sniff, she grinned hesitantly back at him and he returned her gaze with a soft smile of his own.  
At that moment, the door to the stable slid slowly open, and Geralt stood, framed by the deepening twilight behind him in the doorway.  
  
“You should get in and have some supper. I’m going to have a look around, get some things together.” With that he turned and strode back down the street, white mane of hair rippling in the slight breeze. Jaskier cupped Drizella’s elbow and they both stood.  
  
“Is he always…like that?” She asked with a sniff, the twinkling lilt back in her voice.  
  
“Ooooohhhhh yes…always.” Jaskier replied, and steered her through a backdoor and into the noisy tavern.  
  
***  
  
“The fairer sex, they often call it…But her love’s as unfair as a crook…It steals all my reason…Commits every treason…Of logic, with naught but a loooook…”  
Drizella’s elbows rested upon the scrubbed wooden table top, chin propped in her hands as she hung on to Jaskier’s every word. She admittedly had a soft spot for the bard’s singing. Geralt crossed his arms, nursing his ale in his hand. It was an older song, and Jaskier always sang it as though only the witcher and himself were in the room, shooting him pointed glances from the dais upon which he pranced and swayed. In the past, Geralt would draw down his hood and make a poor attempt at blending into the wooden bench behind him, but now he found himself returning his bard’s wink with warm twist of his lips. Drizella let her hand drop to the table with a thud and raised her eyebrow at him over her shoulder; the witcher met her with a level look of his own, daring her to comment.  
Jaskier swept a flourishing bow as the song ended and flounced over to join them, calling for another round. The evening continued in much the same fashion; the bard played several more sets, joining Geralt and Drizella in between for a snatch of conversation and drink.  
  
“What made you remove the cuffs?” Geralt finally murmured. His head was swimming a bit, but he had always prided himself in the way he maintained under the influence of alcohol. Not like humans…messy, blathering and practically pissing themselves. She turned her seal-brown eyes on him, swaying a bit as she answered;  
  
“Couldn’t very well drag a man in handcuffs into a bar…raises awkward questions.” She produced, swigging her ale and turning back toward Jaskier, who was now stomping in time to a rather raucous tune upon a nearby table as the crowd around him clapped along.  
  
“Hmm…nice try…” He muttered.  
  
“I…trust him…” She whispered without turning around. “I trust you…” Geralt’s smile widened a fraction.  
  
Sometime later found the three of them seated on the floor of the single room they had rented; Drizella had already stated that she would rather sleep with Roach than listen to the two of them swooning for a second longer than she had to, so a single room it was. It didn’t stop Jaskier’s face from blanching crimson. They were passing around a bottle of Elderflower mead that the bard had swiped from an unwitting table and were laughing uproariously at a game Drizella called ‘Truth and Lies’. They had had plenty to drink before retiring to the room and even Geralt’s guard was down. He flatly refused to play, citing the excuse that he was the oldest by far and didn’t have any lies left, but he chuckled earnestly as Drizella and Jaskier laid into each other. Jaskier smiled inside and out; it was good to see the witcher enjoying himself.  
  
“Okay, my turn!” Drizella giggled, snatching the bottle away from Jaskier’s lips to an indignant yelp. He glared jokingly at her as she took a long draught. “Okay…” she cleared her throat, catching a drop of mead as it trickled out the corner of her mouth and setting the bottle on the floor in front of them, “Three years ago, I met a small boy on the road to Maribor…there was something about him…he didn’t shy away at the sight of me. He walked up, sank his little fingers into my mane…so I let him ride. We ran so fast, he and I…it was like we could fly.”  
  
“Codswallop!” Jaskier cried, snagging the bottle again, “The other story’s the true one, and I haven’t even heard it yet!” Drizella gasped and pinched him in the side and Geralt chuckled. “Go on then, go on…” Jaskier spurred, passing the bottle to Geralt, whos hand lingered upon his for the briefest moment. Jaskier caught his eye, cheeks flushing a beautiful pink.  
  
“SO…!” Drizella continued loudly, drawing back the attention, “With a wreath of flowers cast at my feet, to the sound my hooves, he declared his heart beat. And on that eve, as the sun did set, we began a journey that we’d ne’er forget.”  
The bard gaped at her as Geralt passed the bottle behind his head and she took it, winking as she tipped her head back.  
  
“They’re both true.” The witcher said softly as he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the bed. They were all silent for a few moments until, once again, the palpable tension became too much and Jaskier took up the bottle again, heaving himself up to standing…fuck, too quickly…and steadied himself on the outstretched hand Geralt thrust into the air. His touch was warm and reassuring.  
  
“If the next words out of your mouth are from one of your songs, so help me, bard…” Drizella growled, sounding oddly a lot like Geralt. Jaskier ignored her, eyes only for the man seated before him, hand still clasped in his own.  
  
“It was cold…it was dark…I heard him howl before I saw his face…his breath on my hand…I turned…eyes of gold…not yellow like newly minted coin, but brassy and rusted, if gold could be said to do such…betraying the great knowledge, ageless wisdom, and pain of long years spent roaming alone…he steps forward, white coat glistening like a new-fallen snow, with the strength and sure-footedness of one who knows the path he is on as surely as he knows himself…but what has brought him here? In the dead of night…into the moonlit shadows of the great tree…I extend my hand…” He squeezed Geralt’s fingers as the witcher stared hungrily up at him, golden pools practically burning him to ash. Jaskier’s heart pounded against his ribs, his breaths short and ragged, and he wiggled his toes in his boots to make sure they were still there; to make sure this was all _real_.  
  
“Fuck, bard, I said no songs…” Drizella mumbled from somewhere off to his right, but he barely heard her. She rose, and snatching the bottle from his hand with a smirk, strode from the room.  
A strangled gasp burst from Jaskier’s lips as he was tugged sharply downward and enveloped into the strong, muscular embrace of the witcher. He groaned thickly as surprisingly soft lips claimed his mouth, messy with drink and hungry with lust. He gasped against Geralt’s lips as calloused fingers twined into his own and rolled him onto his back, pinning him there.  
Geralt breathed heavily through his nose, taking in as much of his bard as he could…enough to drown happily in. Breaking away from his mouth, he gazed down at Jaskier, lips swollen and puckered, deep blue pools of liquid sapphire alight with the flame of desire, for him. Diving into the crook of his neck, he sucked hard upon the skin of Jaskier’s collar, eliciting a moan and a ‘FUCK, Geralt…’ He could feel himself hardening and he pressed his hips into the other man, smiling into Jaskier’s neck at the stiffness that met his thigh in return.  
Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath as Geralt licked a wet line from his collar to his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut and arching his back. He strained against the witcher’s hands holding him fast, yearning to touch every square inch of his body. He felt the weight shift as Geralt rolled onto his back, pulling Jaskier on top of him. Jaskier threw his head back as Geralt’s hands traveled up his chest, grinding his hips upward and making his head spin. Swooping back down upon the witcher’s mouth, Jaskier’s fingers traced over literal mountains of smooth, hard muscle; gliding ever southward until they closed around Geralt’s rock hard—  
  
NNNNNNNNnnnnnnEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiiiGGGHGGGHGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!  
  
The petrified scream of a distressed horse split the silence like shattering glass.  
  
“FUCK!” Geralt spat as Jaskier rolled off of him, each struggling to his feet.  
  
_Drizella_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna throw out that while I didn't invent the game 'Truth and Lies', it was way fun to write about...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun action with a sprinkling of fluff and snark of course...and more of me making wild guesses at how long it takes to get from here to there and hoping I capture Ciri's character okay. I'm excited for them to take a breath in Kaer Morhen before going to kick some ass in Kovir.
> 
> P.S. Word keeps suggesting "Jerkier" and "Geraldo" as corrections...can you imagine? The Chronicles of Jerkier and Geraldo? Imdying...

Everything happened at once as Geralt flew to a corner of the room, throwing on his breastplate and bracers and hastily buckling them in place. He slung his swords across his back and turned to Jaskier, who was jerking his tunic straight and retrieving his abandoned silk doublet from the foot of the mattress. The witcher closed the distance between them in two strides, cupping his chin and tugging him upward into a fierce kiss.  
  
“This isn’t over…” He growled, smiling crookedly as the bard swooned beneath him. Taking him by the hand he led them from the room. (‘wait, wait, _WAIT!_ ’ Jaskier hissed, squirreling back into the room and snatching his lute.)  
  
Making something of a scene, they crashed down the stairs back into the tavern to the bewildered stares of the bar’s few remaining patrons and threw the back door to the stables open. They could hear the commotion and Drizella’s continued brays of distress from the streets outside. Whatever was happening, she at least sounded like she was holding her own from the occasional human scream that cut the through the din. Geralt had hidden most of their newly acquired supplies under a pile of straw in Roach’s stall and as soon as she was laden and cinched up, he swung up into the saddle. With a softened look, Geralt turned toward Jaskier and extended a hand to him. The bard took it with a still lightly ale-kissed grin, and he hauled him up behind him. Booting Roach to a trot, they clattered from the stable.  
As they cantered around the corner of the building, a scene of utter chaos met them; four men circled a rearing and bucking Drizella as one of them, who had managed to attach a strange looking lead to her bridle attempted to get her under control.  
  
“Ah, fuck.” The witcher grated from in front of Jaskier.  
Reining Roach in, Geralt’s eyes flickered between the men, who hadn’t caught sight of them yet. They had abandoned trying to jump on to her back from their places on the ground and one of them was now climbing onto a stack of kegs that sat perched against the side of a nearby building in an effort to gain some height on her.  
  
“Bring her over here, lads!” The man, presumably their leader, shouted.  
  
“Geralt…” Jaskier whispered, “Who the hell are these guys?”  
  
“Horse thieves.” The witcher snarled bitterly, bringing his hand behind his back and loosening his sword.  
  
Drizella continued to scream and rear as the men on the ground tried to chivvy her over to the stack of kegs where the fourth waited for his chance. The witcher extended the palm of his hand, preparing to sign as one of the men whirled the free length of the lead and sent it lashing into the mare’s chest, forcing her backward, but it was too late. The thief standing on the stack of barrels took his chance as Drisella backed toward him and leapt onto her, knotting his fists in her mane as the pyramid of wooden casks he had just jumped from exploded outward.  
  
“Hold tight to me.” Geralt called urgently over his shoulder as Drizella screamed again and took flight, galloping as fast as her long legs could carry her down the street. Jaskier snaked his arms around the witcher’s muscular torso and with a lurch, they tore after her, scattering the remaining thieves as they ran presumably back to their own mounts.  
  
The black mare was fast and Roach bore a lot of extra weight which meant that catching up to her was going to be impossible. Geralt could only hope that she would either manage to throw off her rider, or tire enough that they could catch up and he could cut the man loose. The former was quickly put to the test as Drizella zig-zagged clumsily around a tree, a boulder, anything to dislodge her captor, but the man was nothing if not experienced and he clung on savagely, practically anticipating her movements. Onward and out of the city they thundered, breaking into a wildwood full of fallen logs and rocks. The witcher heard a curse from over his shoulder; felt one of Jaskier’s arms release him as a low hanging branch appeared out of nowhere and almost dragged the bard off. They were forced to slow their pace in the thick of the trees and Geralt could feel Roach blowing hard, and wondered just how much longer they would be able to keep this up. The black mare continued to run as though the very whips of the thieves were driving her, seemingly unperturbed by the increase of obstacles within the thick landscape around them. Drizella was far enough ahead now that even the witcher couldn’t see her anymore and had to rely on her scent; the faint twang of stagnant water, fear, and sweat to guide him forward.  
  
Suddenly, the wall of greenery broke away, and Geralt and Jaskier were thrust into a bright ray of moonlight upon a broad, grassy precipice, where a horrible scene met their eyes.  
Drizella was snorting and blowing at the edge of the cliff, four legs splayed out wide, hooves grinding into the dirt and head slung low as something wailed and tugged from over the brink…attached to the other end of the lead and dragging her forward. Dismounting quickly, Geralt spared a glance at Jaskier, whos hand was indeed stemming the flow of blood from his nose.  
  
“Are you okay, Jaskier?” He whispered quickly. At a clipped nod from the other man, he squeezed his calf and strode out toward the rocky overhang. Drawing level with Drizella’s face, he peered over the edge. The lead thief’s eyes widened as he gazed fearfully upward, scrabbling for purchase on the slippery cliff-face.  
  
“Don’t let me die!” He wailed pathetically, “This weren’t my idea, I swear it!”  
With a grimace, Geralt turned back to Drizella, gazing into her soft tawny eye, surrounded with white. Fear.  
  
“Can the rope be removed?” He asked her; she shook her head jerkily…no.  
  
“Can you transform?” Another jerk…no.  
  
“Hmm…” Her hooves slid another inch. The witcher jogged back over to Roach and helped Jaskier hurriedly down, guiding him to sit on a rock beneath a nearby tree. He turned back to his saddle bags and withdrew a long rope.  
  
“C’mon girl…” He murmured to a still-heaving Roach, leading her forward, “I need a favor…” Leading his own mare up alongside Drizella, he knotted one end of the rope securely to the saddle horn before glancing back over the edge of the precipice. He growled savagely, tossing the other end down to the man dangling below. He turned back to Drizella and gave her a re-assuring look. “It’s okay…” He soothed, stroking her neck, “I won’t let him hurt you.” She snorted. With a nod he stepped over to Roach and hauled on her reins. Slowly the two mares began to back, hooves grinding into the dirt, strong muscles rippling, until the arms of the man grappled over the edge of the cliff. He hauled himself, panting, over the edge, sucking in air as though he had been reborn. The witcher watched from several steps away, not so eager to save the man’s life that he felt the need to physically help him, but now he stepped forward and took up the rope he had used to haul him to safety and instead wound it tightly around his wrists, ordering him to sit on the ground and not move an inch. The man took one look at the witcher’s stormy face and obediently cowered like a whipped dog, sinking into a subdued heap upon the grass. Before returning to Jaskier, he took up the lead that hung limply now from Drizella’s headstall and turned it over in his fingers. It was strangely warm. He traced its eerie, greenish length to where it connected, strangely seamlessly into the silver of the bit rings, almost as though they were all of one piece. Fucking magic…He wound the length up into a loose coil and braided it gently into her mane to secure it. She whickered softly at him. He left their prisoner tied to Roach, who was looking intently down at him as though daring him to breathe. The witcher smirked affectionately at his mount before striding over to where Jaskier sat under the tree, the cuff of his tunic torn where he had removed a strip of fabric from it and jammed it up his nose. Geralt collapsed next to him and laced the fingers of his right hand behind the bard’s neck, bringing his face closer so that he could appraise the wound. An ugly shade of purple was blossoming over the bridge of Jaskier’s nose. With his left hand, Geralt lightly palpated the spot with a gentle touch.  
  
“Geraldt… _ack!_...gendlyyy- _yyy_ …!” The bard squeaked, fingers shooting up to the witcher’s forearms. Geralt sighed, removing his hands from Jaskier’s face and allowing the left one to rest, instead, upon his bard’s thigh. He almost felt guilty with how much he still wanted to touch the man…almost.  
  
“It’s probably broken…but not badly…” He murmured, squeezing Jaskier’s leg gently.  
  
“Oh, that’s comp-porting…” Jaskier murmured exasperatedly through his blocked up nose, leaning back on his elbows and throwing the other man a glance. “…Nudding like a broked dose to sober a mand…” With a sigh, Geralt turned his attention to the scene before them, his brow furrowed in thought. “So, is dis da part where you tell me what’s going on, or shall I stard us in a round of twendy questions?” The witcher snorted, turning his head briefly to catch Jaskier’s blue-eyed gaze, their beauty in stark contrast to the wad of fabric sticking out of his nose, but achingly still handsome as ever.  
  
“You need not toss a coin to bet that those men were sent by Alda.” He exhaled heavily, his eyes returning to their prisoner, whos head hung between his knees. “The lead they used on her…I’ve never seen anything like it before, but it’s likely of a magical nature. It can’t be removed without the use of such, and it prevents her from transforming.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees and digging the heel of his boot into the earth, thinking. He could feel Jaskier’s eyes on his back, smell the suspicion rolling off of him as though he knew what Geralt’s next words were going to be before he spoke them.  
  
“Ledt be guess…” He drawled…  
  
“We need Yen.” They finished together.  
With a groan, Jaskier flopped back against the boulder and ran his hands through his short crop of hair. It was sticky…he would kill for a bath.  
  
“Jaskier…” He felt Geralt’s hand upon his leg again. He propped himself back up, schooling his features into passable disinterest, to find the witcher’s golden eyes staring hard into his face. “I desire no one other than you.” Jaskier swallowed thickly, trying and failing to maintain a look of impassivity as Geralt rose and placed his hands to either side of his shoulders.  
  
“Do I dedect a hindt of possessivedess, Geraldt?” He fumbled, heart hammering against his ribs. The witcher smiled; a positively shit-eating leer.  
  
“Yeah…a problem?” He whispered in that hungry growl that Jaskier was coming to accept as the tone that would get him quite literally whatever he wanted, including the bard on a fucking silver platter.  
  
“Dope…dope, dot at all…” Jaskier croaked back as Geralt leaned into his ear. He shivered magnificently, a small unbidden moan slipping between his lips as the witcher’s hot breath ghosted his neck.  
  
“Stop saying ‘Dope’…” He murmured before pushing away and striding into the clearing, not even wincing as a stone bounced off of his shoulder to the accompaniment of a string of garbled curses.  
  
***  
  
They had made their way back onto the road and after a bit of backtracking, and had selected a path that would take them steadily further north toward Kaer Morhen instead of west across Redania. After confirming that the horse thieves had, indeed, been sent by Alda, Geralt had cut the man loose, but did not untie his hands, and had given him a stiff warning…  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
… _“If I catch you or any of your cronies following us, I’ll tie you to my horse and personally whip you all the way from here to Kaer Morhen…and I’ll spare you the details of what will happen to you there should you make it that far…” The thief gurgled incoherently, a look on his face that suggested he was two ticks shy of pissing himself on the spot, when the witcher tossed him aside like a rag and swung back into Roach’s saddle, drawing Jaskier up behind him…_  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
…Once they were a ways back on to the main road and had gone several miles without interruption, Geralt halted suddenly; offering his hand to Jaskier who stepped down next to him. He no longer had rags stuffed up his nose, and he had allowed Geralt to sponge most of the blood away, but a sickly green tinge had mixed with the purple and it had extended like a spiders web into the corners of his eyes.  
  
“Geralt…what’s…what’re we doing?” The bard asked curiously as Geralt stepped up to his saddle bags and rummaged around. A faint glow illuminated the eastern horizon and Jaskier was suddenly struck by the fact that they had carried on right into the wee hours of the morning. It made him feel very tired all of the sudden. Drizella stepped up, sniffing interestedly as the witcher’s fingers produced first, an apple that she accepted with a bob of her head, withdrawing to crunch noisily on the treat; and second, a large black woolen bareback blanket, complete with a soft girth of more woven wool. He smiled briefly at the wide-eyed look on Jaskier’s face before turning back to the raven-black mare.  
  
“What do you say?” He crooned, reaching a hand out and scratching her cheek. He lowered his voice further so that only she could hear, “…If not for him…do it for me? A gelded bard isn’t nearly as much fun…” She snorted contemptuously at him but didn’t object as his hand traveled over the smooth arch of her neck, fingers brushing through her course, ebony tresses before coming to rest upon her back. He spared her one more glance before tossing the blanket easily over her withers. She remained still, soft eyelashes fluttering and breathing easily as he snugged the girth around her strong barrel. Once he was finished, he strode back around to look her in the eye once more.  
  
“Thank you.” He whispered, fingers lingering on her velvet nose for just a moment before he turned back to Jaskier, who had dug an apple out for himself and was watching the action with his hip cocked, chewing thoughtfully. Geralt drew level with him and clapped him on the shoulder with a crooked grin as he made to mount up once more.  
  
“It was a nice touch with the apple…really upped your game…” Jaskier mocked as he tossed his core away and strode to Drizella’s side. Geralt merely folded his arms from his saddle, looking on with a grin. Jaskier sighed, a frown worrying his face as he wound his left hand into the tuft of mane at her withers and gripped the blanket with his right. He puffed an irritated sigh and cocked his head at her.  
  
“Drizella, my _beauty_ , it may come as a shock to you that I am… _quite_ a bit shorter than you, _not_ that that holds any precedence for the size of _other_ things…but ehm…would you…ya know…be so kind…?” He broke off, cheeks coloring as he pressed down upon her shoulder. Geralt bit off a smirk from behind him and Jaskier resisted the urge to look back at the man. Slowly, the mare lowered on her haunches, dipping one of her front knees until she was of a height that he could manage.  
  
He had barely lifted one knee, however, when she straightened with a jolt, sending him stumbling backward. Geralt laughed out loud as she pranced in a circle with a triumphant whinny. Jaskier glared daggers between them, which only made him laugh harder as the bard stomped back over to the mare. A moment later, they were both mounted up and trotting at a good pace along the road north.  
  
A few hours later had the sun climbing lazily toward high noon, and Geralt, finally feeling easier with several miles of distance between themselves and the incident with the horse snatchers, led the drooping, tired party off the road once more and into the shelter of a towering outcrop of huge boulders. He tied off and unloaded Roach, and helped a nodding and rambling Jaskier off Drizella’s back before the two mares wandered off a short distance to graze. He snugged the bard up against the feet of a particularly large stone and drew a blanket out from his saddle bags. Even with spring on the way, it would only grow cooler as they traveled deeper into Kaedwen. He tucked it affectionately around Jaskier’s shoulders, pausing to stroke the fingers that slithered over the edge of the wool, drawing the fabric closer. He smiled, feeling more at ease even in the face of danger than he had all winter.  
  
***  
  
(Approx. 8 days later)  
  
“Mistress Yennefer!” Ciri’s voice rang out uncharacteristically loud and reverberant in the nearly empty lower level of the main keep. “Mistress Yennefer!” Extracting her nose from the dusty pages of a large tome detailing the history of Kaedwen, Yen half rose from her high-backed chair, eyes flickering to the door as Ciri’s voice rang out in the hall beyond. Just as she swept around the corner of her desk, extending her hand toward the doorknob, it burst inward and a slender blonde youth nearly crashed into her as she skidded over the threshold. Yen stepped back, eyes wide, hands going to Ciri’s shoulders as pale periwinkle eyes gazed excitedly back at her.  
  
“Peace, girl, whatever is the matter?” She inquired as Ciri fought to get a hold on her excitement. “Has Vesemir fallen asleep again?”  
  
“No!” Ciri panted, “They’re _here!_ ” She urged, taking Yennefer by the hand and trying to tug her bodily from the room.  
  
“Cirilla _Fiona!_ ” Yen scolded, shaking her hand free of the younger woman’s grip, “You _will_ calm yourself and speak plainly.” In a whirl of golden hair, the princess turned back with a guilty look on her face, but it was replaced almost instantly again with one of excitement as she took a deep breath.  
  
“Geralt is back! A man is with him and I think he has a new horse! Come! Come see!” At this, Yennefer allowed herself to be lead down the hall and into the antechamber where the great iron-strapped front door of the main hall had been thrown wide. Vesemir stood to the side and turned his head away from Geralt as the two women entered. Jaskier had been bouncing idly on his heels to Geralt’s left and he fluttered his fingers at her with a smirk as she strode forward.  
  
“Geralt!” Ciri called and ran to him, crashing into his arms with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of him. He smiled warmly, chuckling into her hair.  
  
“You’ve gotten taller again.” He said, pushing her back and straightening, assessing her height with his eyes. “Growing soft, old man?” He cocked an eyebrow at Vesemir, whos warm grin deepened. “She must be eating better than any of us did back in the day.” Ciri laughed angelically as Geralt tousled the top of her head. Jaskier felt a strong surge of affection for the witcher. He turned then to Yen as she swayed to a stop before them. She appraised him silently through pursed lips, violet gaze flickering between Geralt and Jaskier, her smile deepened.  
  
“I am glad you found your quarry.” She said finally.  
  
“ _Yennefer_ …” Jaskier inclined his head the smallest of amounts, “Pleasure’s all mine… _literally_ …every last drop.” Jaskier oozed sarcastically, sweeping an overly dramatic bow and winking at her. She merely rolled her eyes. Geralt shot him a scathing look, that said quite plainly ‘not in front of the kid’, and Jaskier straightened, matching his stare with an impish grin that had the witcher’s glare softening in seconds. Geralt then spun Ciri in front of him so that she was facing Jaskier and made introductions.  
  
“…Wait…” She began… “my Grandmother told me about you once!” Ciri exclaimed, “You played at my mother’s betrothal…on the night Geralt saved my father, so claiming me in The Law of Surprise! Geralt says you have a nice voice…” She plunged on until a large hand drifted over her lips, muffling her oratory, but the damage was done. Jaskier turned his head slowly to Geralt, jaw practically on the floor and look splitting his face that suggested all of his birthdays had come early. The witcher rubbed his temples with his free hand and Yen stuffed a fist in her mouth. Accepting Geralt’s discomfort as punishment enough he took Ciri by the hand and twirled her in an elegant circle; she giggled.  
  
“What a _delight_ you are, my dear…you know what? Suddenly I have a strong craving for pie…” He carefully caught Geralt’s eye, “…the richest, sweetest, most mouth-watering pie there ever was…do you like pie, princess?”  
  
“Of course I do!” Ciri replied delightedly as Jaskier held her hand aloft.  
  
“A _gem_ you are, sweet girl! What say you we make one later, and I’ll tell you the real story of what happened that night The White Wolf saved your father, hm?” He kissed the top of her hand and she laughed; the sound of a choir of angels as she returned to stand by Geralt. The witcher rolled his eyes and shook his head, but a smile tweaked the corners of his lips. Vesemir stepped forward;  
  
“Cirilla, my dear, I think it’s best we leave Geralt, Mistress Yennefer, and the bard to their business for a moment. You still have work to do before the day is done.” With a final squeeze of Geralt’s hand, Ciri allowed herself to be steered from the antechamber. Vesemir clapped Geralt’s shoulder as he guided his charge back down a side hall.  
  
“We can speak in my study.” Yen said, sweeping around and striding back in the direction she had come.  
  
“I always knew you liked my…”  
  
“Don’t push it.” Geralt growled as they followed suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally love Joey Batey's singing voice and if you haven't checked out 'The Amazing Devil' yet you should!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get to chill in Kaer Morhen for a bit of a reprieve before heading out to bring some baddies to justice, Ooo-rah!
> 
> End of the chap is sexually explicit, so heads up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry for the delay on this chap...I'm still not feeling well and went to doc today. Negative for the 'rona thankfully but in lieu of that, she says plant sex is what's trying to kill me...aka, severe seasonal allergies...like the debilitating kind that is making my head feel like it's stuffed full of cotton.
> 
> SO, I'm nervous about this update because I know very little about Vesemir's character and I hope his interaction with Geralt is organic (My books just arrived yesterday, so I'm looking forward to actually reading this series)  
> I'm totally pulling details of Kaer Morhen and Geralt's training out of my ass for my own devices and I hope it's believable...plus another O.C. so I'd REALLY appreciate feedback...

“I assume that you’ve kissed and made up.” Yennefer said evenly as she pulled the door to her study closed behind her.  
  
“Something like that…” Geralt growled, folding his arms across his chest with a hint of a challenging look on his face as she turned her violet gaze on him. Jaskiers eyes darted, intrigued, from one to the other, curious just where and how far this conversation was going. “Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I set out to solve one problem, only to bring an even bigger one back home.” The witcher raised his chin in an accusatory way, glowering down his nose at her. She rolled her eyes and puffed a sigh.  
  
“I know he can be an arrogant, self-indulgent little prick but…”  
  
“Not the bard…the girl…” Geralt cut her off as she waved an admonishing hand toward Jaskier, who promptly flipped her off with a saccharine smile on his face. Geralt ignored him and went on; “Yennefer, I know you sent Drizella to find me…” Yen’s face, seemingly fixed with that ever-present, contemptuous, ‘holier-than-thou’ look she always wore suddenly broke into one of wide-eyed shock.  
  
“Wait… _Drizella is here?_ ” She said in an urgent whisper. “Ciri said something about another horse but…” she continued, more to herself than the two men before her.  
  
“You nearly got me… _us_ …killed with your little meddling stunt…” Jaskier began, not willing to leave his voice out of any conversation, “A little pre-cautionary heads-up would be wonderful in the future before you go giving my calling card to any old demon with a vengeance, _thankyouverymuch_.” Yennefer cocked an eyebrow at him…so did Geralt. The bard lapsed into an exasperated silence once more.  
  
“I gave her that potion a few months after our collective tantrums on that mountain side. How could I have known when she would use it? In any case, I need to speak with her. The problem of Verin Alda is one that needs to be dealt with…and carefully.”  
  
Several minutes later, they were marching across the grounds toward the stables; Geralt regaling Yen with the story of how he had found Drizella and Jaskier, and how Alda’s hired thieves had waylaid them and forced them back to Kaer Morhen.  
  
“…Even if they hadn’t, Geralt, the trip to Kovir would have taken you weeks. Do you _really_ despise portalling that much?” She scoffed as they stopped in front of the great sliding stable door. The witcher did not grace her words with an answer and instead took that precise moment to heave upon the door and tug it open. They filed inside, making their way past rows and rows of empty stalls. The air was thick with the earthy smell of fresh straw, weathered wood, horse sweat and manure. Geralt’s nostrils flared slightly as the pungent smells accosted him. He breathed deeply; he had always derived a strange sense of peace in those smells…they were calming. Roach whickered at him as he passed and his fingers brushed her muzzle briefly. They finally came to a halt on the other side of a large end paddock where the great black mare stood, ears swiveling, soft dark eyes appraising her visitors with interest. Yennefer stepped forward and lifted the latch; Geralt followed her inside, pausing to squeeze Jaskier’s hand as he passed, the faint curl of a smile on his lips. The bard followed him with a crooked grin of his own.  
  
“I can’t believe you did it…” Yennefer crooned, fingers grazing over Drizella’s broad, powerful face and through her mane, faltering slightly as they clasped the coils of the strange magic infused lead rope still plaited into her hair.  
  
“The lead has been enhanced with some kind of magic. It prevents her from transforming.” Geralt said as Yen began unlacing it from the mare’s raven tresses and passing the coils between her palms. She closed her eyes, squeezing the rope gently.  
  
“It’s an unbreakable curse…” She began, without opening her eyes. Jaskier exhaled sharply;  
  
“Bloody brilliant…so she’s stuck like this forever?”  
  
“No, idiot… ‘Unbreakable’ in the sense that once implemented, it cannot be torn, broken, cut, removed, or replaced by anyone…other than a mage, of course…” Her eyes flickered open to shoot him an impudent grin before she closed them once more. Jaskier crossed his arms and leaned sullenly against the stall door. “Quite a frustrating little bit of hocus pocus, but the counter curse is more or less simple…” Her fingers followed the lead to where it connected to Drizella’s bridle and Yen opened her eyes again, casting about for something unknown, her gaze finally alighting upon a large moth. It was roosting quietly upon the wooden paneling of the paddock. Her eyes flickered momentarily to Geralt before striding over and catching the insect up in her fist. With one hand upon the lead, she held the fist containing the trapped insect aloft and tilted her head back, whispering something in Elder Jaskier couldn’t catch. Several long moments passed; Jaskier tensing slightly where he leaned against the stall door. He could feel the air thicken around them as Yen’s chants grew into a low, breathy hum, vibrating the very air they breathed. Presently, with a soft ‘click’, like a key being turned in a lock, the chanting stopped. Yen opened her fist and turned her palm over, the dead moth tumbling into a straw-laden grave. The strange lead rope looked rather plain and drab now…nothing more than a simple length of leather once again…And behind the mage, dusting her creamy skirts off, stood Drizella. Yen turned on her heel with a smile, placing both hands upon the other woman’s shoulders. With a breath of relief, Drizella collapsed into Yen’s arms, drawing her into a tight embrace. The mage’s look of bewilderment melted instantly as she snaked her arms around the Kelpie’s shoulders. Jaskier caught Geralt’s eye and they shared a smile.  
  
***  
  
“I’ve done a little reading up on our friend Verin Alda,” Yen said as the four of them made their way back toward the keep. “Most of what is here in Kaer Morhen only talks of his days as a trainee, but there are some interesting insights…Aside from the more typical rants about his overconfidence, arrogance and sour demeanor…apparently he was dragged out of Kaer Morhen after drawing too deeply on one of the mutagens, nearly killing himself…which wouldn’t have come as all that great of a shock, but he almost killed the mage working with him as well. That same mage, one Bolek Sanz, that he almost killed was the same individual who removed him from the castle; presumably to execute the wayward pupil…or, so the log entries say…” Drizella suddenly scrambled forward to Yen’s side, one hand grasping her elbow and pulling her around to a stop. There was a touch of alarm in her dark chocolate eyes as she looked at the other woman.  
  
“I’ve seen Alda with a mage…only a few times…I never caught his name…you don’t think…?” Yen’s eyes snapped to her, a troubled look creasing her brow.  
  
“I don’t know…” She said in a low worried tone, returning the Kelpie’s anxious look.  
  
“I remember Bolek…” Geralt spoke up suddenly, “…hard, pitiless, and a thirst for power to rival that of Verin oddly enough… It wouldn’t be altogether surprising if they were working together, but the bigger question is ‘why?’…” No one said anything, collectively chewing on the witcher’s words, until he spoke again, “What about this work-camp? What is its purpose?” Drizella’s eyes flitted to him and she licked her lips nervously.  
  
“Iron ore…it’s a mine…” Whether this was the answer Geralt expected or not, he said nothing more. Jaskier glanced up at him; his brow was drawn, and there was a feeling of brooding intensity that radiated from him. There was definitely more on his mind than he was saying, but Jaskier didn’t pressure him. All eyes rested on the witcher now, but Geralt was unperturbed by the weight of the triple threat boring into him; his own golden orbs seemingly very interested in the ground before his feet.  
  
“I need to speak with Vesemir.” He said finally, punctuating his words with a deep sigh. He turned to Jaskier and cupped the back of the bard’s neck with a large warm hand. “I’ll find you later…” and, catching the worried look on Jaskier’s face, added “…I’m okay.” With a gentle squeeze, he dropped his hand. Jaskier could still feel the residual touch even as the witcher turned and strode alone down a side path that lead to a slightly lesser tower off to the right of the main keep.  
  
“Well!” The bard exclaimed, clapping his hands together, “That pie isn’t going to fill itself, and I’ve got to build my reputation up with the little princess while I can…in light of the company she keeps…” Jaskier trailed off waspishly with a pointed look at Yen as he made his own way back toward the main entrance.  
  
***  
  
Geralt accepted the goblet that Vesemir offered with a muttered ‘thanks’, and swirled the contents with a dark look. The older witcher strode to his writing desk, turning and leaning back against it as he took a long draw from his own globe. Geralt could feel the other man’s eyes on him, weighing and measuring as though he could see right through him. In many ways, Geralt suspected he did. Rather than allow Vesemir the satisfaction of drawing his thoughts from his head as though he were reading from a book, Geralt opted to speak first;  
  
“You knew that Verin was still alive?” He growled with a harshness in his voice that he hadn’t intended. His mentor heaved a great sigh, turning his own golden eyes upon Geralt’s.  
  
“I did.” He replied, unblinking.  
  
“…And you have neglected to tell me before now, for what purpose? How long were you planning on hiding the slaughter of thousands of innocent beings?” Vesemir’s face remained unchanged, but his eyes bored into Geralt’s as though he were trying to communicate something unspoken.  
  
“I didn’t tell you because it was not your time to know…not your battle to fight.” He maintained calmly, which only served to stoke Geralt’s bubbling anger.  
  
“Don’t you think I have the right to be the judge of that? It’s bad enough that I have dedicated my life to the slaying of beasts and monsters for the betterment of a world for a race who continually prove themselves to be far worse in many ways; I should think I have certainly earned the right to face my own demons!” Geralt broke off with the realization that his voice had risen several decibels, and he had stepped forward so that he was now leering up into Vesemir’s face. Surprisingly, the older witcher’s features softened.  
  
“Geralt…despite your wild success, you have always had a habit…some would call it nettlesome…I myself find it endearing…but a habit all the same…of letting your emotions guide your actions…whether you realize it or not.” Geralt said nothing. He stepped back and turned, unable to meet Vesemir’s eyes any longer. “I’ve said it before and I will say it again: empathy is not something to be scorned. I thought so once…” He said in a whisper that Geralt strained to catch. “But, it’s what sets you apart… a unique weapon of your own, Geralt. I didn’t tell you about Verin then because I knew you were not ready to embrace the feeling as anything more than fragility. I couldn’t risk him feeding on your weakness…couldn’t risk him exploiting the fatigue of your own denial. It was bad enough that he had already almost succeeded once…” Geralt’s jaw clenched as memories of a young Verin Alda’s fingers clamped over his throat like a vice grip flashed in his mind. He stuffed the thoughts away.  
  
“Nothing’s changed…” Geralt spat the words as thought putting enough force behind them could somehow make them true, but his heart wasn’t in it.  
  
“Your very demeanor begs otherwise…” Vesemir scoffed, taking a swallow of wine. He took a step toward Geralt and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “Your ability to find strength in the emotions that would send even kings spiraling into a dark void is what makes you stronger. You embrace them, and they _have_ changed you…for the better.” Geralt finally forced himself to meet Vesemir’s gaze; his eyes were kind. With a squeeze of his shoulder, the old witcher turned back and strode to the window, leaning on the stone sill. “…for the record, I knew nothing of the labor camp. I found out about that at the same time Yennefer bequeathed that potion to the Kelpie.”  
  
“There’s something else…” Geralt murmured, pushing off the wall he had been leaning on and snatching at the change of subject. “…Alda’s got a mage working with him...might be Bolek…might not be…but I don’t like the odds.” Vesemir turned from where he was gazing out the window and frowned, brow drawn in thought.  
  
“If it is Bolek…you will need to be extra cautious. The man held little respect for rules, even among mages. His desire for power had him dabbling in dark magic that he had little knowledge of how to use and even less knowledge of how to control. It was ultimately what cost him his position here.” Vesemir sipped his wine fretfully. “If it is Bolek…I fear for the part he will play in this.” With a grimace, the old witcher drained his goblet and set the empty cup upon his desk as though pinning their collective morbid thoughts beneath it. He smiled, throwing his arms wide;  
  
“Now, speaking of changes…I’ve never known you to invite anyone home for dinner. And don’t try to tell me he’s merely a side-effect of all of this Verin Alda bull-shit…” Geralt unsuccessfully tried to stifle a smirk as Vesemir strode around and clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
“Perhaps I’ve changed a little afterall…” He murmured, cocking an eyebrow at his mentor. “…but gods be damned if I tell you anything about it.” Vesemir laughed openly.  
  
“No need, my friend…as always your words speak a thousand pictures.”  
  
***  
  
Jaskier blinked his eyes furiously as he read and re-read the same sentence for what seemed like the fifth time, seemingly unable to concentrate. Resigned, he closed the large book that lay propped against his knees and stared from the slice of pie that sat on the scrubbed wooden surface of the table in front of him, light tendrils of steam still issuing from the crust, and the library window where the sun’s rays were steadily lengthening on the dusty stone floor. He flopped back in his chair, toying with the buttons of his clean tunic. He had finally had a bath, Melitele be blessed, and afterwards had spent the better part of two hours in the kitchen baking and laughing with Ciri; a delightful girl, that young princess. A better audience for his stories, he had never known.  
  
Though he was seldom idle even during the more even keeled moments of his life, the last two weeks had been positively _tumultuous_ , both emotionally and physically and he found himself rather enjoying the deafening silence of Kaer Morhen’s huge library. His thoughts strayed from Drizella, their mission to save her life and likely others from an evil witcher drop-out, his vain hope that Geralt was feeling up to taking down one of his own and, inevitably, to The White Wolf himself. 

All the words they had spoken and the handful of moments they had shared had happened so quickly, he felt like he hadn’t had a moment to stop and think, or to savor any of it. He had long ago abandoned denying that he was attracted to Geralt, but he had spent every moment since then preparing himself for the likelihood that his feelings would never be reciprocated, so it was no small wonder that he was still reeling from the shock of just how wrong he may have been. 

It wasn’t that he had never suspected the man; particularly when his golden eyes did more than their fair share of wandering when he thought Jaskier hadn’t noticed…it was more that he was convinced that the witcher would never allow himself to be that vulnerable. It wasn’t just about sex, though the desire to know what that would be like was practically burning him up inside. It was about giving over completely to another person, it was about honesty and trust…two halves coming together to make a whole. Gods it was all cliché…and Jaskier wanted it…he wanted it with Geralt. 

A question occurred to him then, and he almost laughed aloud for not having voiced it sooner; _‘Why had Geralt been on the road to Posada in the first place?’_  
Before his mind could bother entertaining any answers, the library door swung open, admitting the man himself. Geralt was still in his armor and traveling clothes as he strode forward and pulled a chair out from across Jaskier, turning it around so that he was straddling it backwards. 

For a moment they merely looked at each other; Jaskier felt he would never tire of drinking in Geralt’s angular face, the smolder of his burnished golden eyes, the pale swell of that lower lip that he longed to suck between his teeth. Swallowing, he pushed the slice of pie toward Geralt.  
  
“That’s for you…has filling and everything…” He teased, proffering a small smile. Geralt grinned back, pulling the plate to him and tucking in.  
  
“Whachu readin’…” The witcher said around a huge mouthful of strawberries and rhubarb.  
  
“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full of… _pie_.” Jaskier emphasized the last word with a lewd smile. Geralt said nothing, but the slow suggestive manner in which he pulled his fork between his lips set Jaskier’s cheeks ablaze and he quickly turned his eyes back to the cover of the large book, an ancient volume on magical herbs and remedies. 

“Erm, it’s nothing…some mage spouting some drivel about some plant or other…” Not looking at Geralt, he slid the book onto the table with a loud ‘flump’. For a long moment, only the sounds of Geralt’s continued chewing broke the silence.  
  
“Your pie…is delicious…” He murmured huskily, setting his fork down with a clatter.  
  
***  
  
_‘BANG!’_  
The door to Geralt’s bed chamber ricocheted off the wall as the witcher dragged his bard through, lips hungrily attempting to devour every inch of his mouth, and kicked the door unceremoniously shut behind them. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat as Geralt pivoted, caging him against the wall next to the door and grinding his hips into him. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils filling with the sharp smell of their combined scents; lavender, chamomile, sweat, camp smoke, lust… his new vice.  
  
“ _Fuck_ , Geralt…oh, fuck!” Jaskier breathed into his ear as Geralt nipped a trail of kisses down his neck and across his collar. The witcher caught his wrists and pinned them high, reclaiming his lips and licking into his mouth. Jaskier didn’t even try to stifle the euphoric whimpers that escaped him as Geralt slid his knee between his thighs, pushing against his rapidly filling cock.  
  
Geralt broke away, hands jerking Jaskier’s creamy tunic free and pulling it over his head. He caught the bard’s blue-eyed gaze as the shirt slithered to the floor, hazy with lust. He brushed a thumb across swollen, rosy lips before descending more gently upon them once more. His hands drifted over the soft skin of his shoulders and over the surprisingly well-formed muscle of Jaskier’s chest, gently swiping his thumbs over perfectly puckered nipples. Another sharp intake of breath, followed by a ‘fuck _meeee_ …’ sent him smiling into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Soon, Jaskier’s fingers were tugging at the hem of his own tunic, and he shed it gladly. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as the bard ran his hands and then his lips over the constellation of scars that littered his chest.  
  
Geralt’s skin twitched and shivered as Jaskier licked and kissed his way over every square inch.  
  
“Jaskier…” Geralt breathed, tangling his fingers in Jaskier’s soft crop of hair as his trail of kisses reached the hem of his breeches...an unbridled, _desperate_ sound...Jaskier’s head spun as he rode the high of finally laying siege to the witcher’s magnificent body. He dropped to his knees, hands snaking around to grasp Geralt’s ass while he continued to kiss and nuzzle into the space between his thigh and the rather sizeable bulge straining against the front of his pants. Jaskier drew a deep breath, gazing up into the bright pools of heavily lidded gold that watched him. Not taking his gaze from Geralt’s face, he slowly began thumbing open the buttons. The witcher growled and threw his head back again as Jaskier freed his cock, and took the head of it in his mouth, drawing him slowly between his lips.  
  
“Well…” He said in a throaty whisper, “There’s one rumor about witchers we can lay to rest…tell me Geralt, is this au naturale, or did the mutations grace you with a dick the size of a H—“ His words were lost as Geralt thrust forward, burying his cock once more between Jaskier’s lips.  
  
It was all Geralt could do not to push into the back of Jaskier’s throat and fuck his mouth until he couldn’t match pitch for a week, but he forced himself to relax, reveling in the languid way Jaskier sucked and swirled his tongue. That is, until the bard slid his hand between his cheeks, cupping his balls and gently massaging the tight flesh of his opening with a finger. A deep-chested groan escaped his lips and he twisted his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, tugging on his scalp. He began to thrust in earnest then as the bard’s fingers wrapped his length, pumping him toward orgasm. He braced his hand against the stone wall, grunting raggedly as he felt hot come spill into the warm chasm of Jaskiers mouth, felt him swallow deeply before releasing him. Drawing a shuddering breath, he reached down, grasping the bard’s wrists and tugging him up. 

Claiming his mouth again, he wasted no time lacing his hands under Jaskier’s backside and hoisting him up around his hips. Stumbling slightly, he made his way to the bed and tossed the bard roughly onto the mattress, eliciting a soft ‘humph’ and earning him a salacious grin. Geralt followed him down, sliding between his thighs and cupping the back of his neck to kiss him once more.  
  
“Gods… _fuck_ …hnnng…” Jaskier hummed, propping himself on his elbows and tilting his head back as Geralt’s tongue exploited his skin, licking a wet trail from his collar to his navel. He hissed sharply as a large hand palmed his throbbing erection over his breeches. _Godsfuckingdamnit_ , he was already close enough to come from the touch alone. He cried out, hands flying to Geralt’s shoulders as the witcher’s mouth closed in turn over each of his nipples and a hand worked the laces of his trousers loose before sliding easily inside and grasping his length. He whined, pushing impatiently at Geralt’s shoulders. He obliged by jerking the waist of Jaskier’s breeches down and sliding to the floor at the foot of the bed, cupping his hands under Jaskier’s knees. 

With a growl, Geralt pressed the bard’s legs toward his ears, spreading him wide and relishing the sight of him coming undone, panting and wanting before him. Lowering his head, he flattened his tongue against the dark pucker of Jaskier’s entrance and drew a wet line over his balls and up the underside of his shaft before closing his lips around his length and sucking deeply. 

Jaskier groaned and bucked his hips, fingers fisting in the linen coverlet as he bit back a string of flowery curses and pledges that Geralt was welcome to his soul as long as he sucked it out through his cock. He didn’t last long then, arching high as the waves of orgasm racked him. He blinked spots from his vision as he felt come flood into Geralt’s mouth and over his fingers.  
  
Breathing heavily through his nose, Geralt crossed his legs under him, turning his back to the foot of the bed and resting his head against the mattress. Next to him, Jaskier roughly tugged his breeches back up around his hips so that he could move freely and slid down onto the floor next to him. He somehow managed to look even more handsome with sweat-dampened curls framing his flushed face. He turned his ocean blue eyes toward him as Geralt slung an arm around his shoulders.  
  
“Apology one-hundred percent accepted…” the bard breathed. Geralt snorted and buried his nose in the crown of Jaskiers hair.  
  
A short while later found both of them stewing, momentarily satiated in a large copper tub within Geralt’s bed chamber. Jaskier, still pinching himself heartily to ensure it wasn’t all a dream, sank deeper into Geralt’s arms. He could already feel the bob of the witcher’s impatient cock against his backside.  
  
“Tell me, is there a good potion for increasing one’s stamina?” He murmured, squeezing Geralt’s forearms as they tightened around his chest.  
  
“Sorry…” the witcher’s gruff voice murmured in his ear, “am I detracting from your beauty sleep?” Jaskier pinched the other man’s thigh under the water, to a sharp hiss and a sting of teeth against his shoulder.  
  
“Geralt…”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
Jaskier swallowed, worrying his lower lip;  
  
“Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that you just happened to be in the right place at the right time…back there…in the clearing outside of Posada where you found me…” The witcher didn’t answer right away, merely continuing his subtle ministrations of Jaskier’s skin with his thumbs.  
  
“Heard a rumor…of a bard whos lyrics sound worse than a drunken banshee’s love song…came to investigate…” Jaskier scoffed loudly, turning around to look at him;  
  
“Pah! Nothing _at all_ to do with the devastatingly handsome, blue-eyed devil lying _rather close_ to your unmentionables, I might remind you…”  
  
“Nothing at all…”  
  
“Nothing at all _my ass_ …”  
  
“I never said it had nothing to do with your ass…” Geralt growled, hands roving over Jaskier’s backside and grasping his cheeks, spreading him roughly to a sharp groan. There was that tone again…  
  
Soon enough, they’re stumbling from the tub back to Geralt’s bed and the witcher’s hands are traveling up and down Jaskier’s body with a renewed urgency that lets him know its fuck or be fucked, and even though that’s not something Jaskier has fully experienced with a male counterpart, he couldn’t imagine sharing the experience with anyone else. 

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face…or rather in his lack of verbal encouragements as Geralt slid his cock over the taught flesh of his opening. The witcher stalled, laying a gentle hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and turning him so they were face to face. Geralt’s golden gaze appraised him worriedly.  
  
“Is this okay?” He asked softly, “You know you need only but speak the word and I can stop at any time…” Jaskier swallowed, dropping his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable.  
  
“It’s not that at all…I _really_ want to…it’s just…”  
  
“You never have…” Geralt finished, gently brushing the bard’s damp bangs out of his eyes. He often forgot how young Jaskier really was…comparatively speaking.  
  
“…I mean, I’ve done _things_ …plenty of wandering hands…wayward mouths…just not quite… _that_ …not with a _male_ associate that is…” Jaskier finished awkwardly, eyes darting nervously. Geralt smiled and cupped the bard’s chin, drawing him into a kiss; a tender, slow and affectionate thing, letting him know there was no rush and that Geralt was perfectly content to simply enjoy his bard’s presence.  
  
“Like I said…” He murmured, “It can wait.” Jaskier held his gaze, quite possibly even more attracted to him than ever.  
  
“Geralt, I think I’ve waited my entire life to share this experience with you.” He said in barely more than a whisper, the words tumbling from his lips before he could even properly think them through, blue eyes glowing in the pale beam of moonlight slanting through the window.  
  
“That’s a line…” The witcher whispered, hands already continuing their desperate appraisal of Jaskier’s body.  
  
“Is it working?” Jaskier breathed, leaning in and Geralt met him the rest of the way, drawing him close until Jaskier felt their skin would surely fuse together, and that wouldn’t be bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is gonna be a bit more fluffy/dripping with canon typical banter as they make ready to leave the keep and head on over to Kovir to kick some ass!  
> Okay, let me know what you think, luvs!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm forging ahead here and praying to the gods that the assumptions I'm making about The Trials are at least halfway believable, so there's that lol.  
> No fucking clue if mages can cast tickling spells, but just roll with it  
> Geralt is Nathaniel Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans and I will hear no argument to the contrary.  
> You better believe Ciri just quoted Mean Girls  
> 'Battle of the Bards'?? Gods what is happening...
> 
> Lastly, Happy Mother's Day...I hope you were all able to hug your moms yesterday. Ciri wasn't, so I gave her a nice, tender mourning moment.

_“The wind blows in her raven mane…a wild spirit never tamed…in her eyes, a lingering hope remaaaiiiiiins….”_  
  
“Jaskier! Gods damnit! It’s hard enough to keep my bloody head without you larking my bloody praises!” Drizella yelled as she ducked a vertical slice of Geralt’s sword, but the words held no sting. Ciri laughed raucously as she whirled her own blade in her hands.  
  
“Don’t stop…” Geralt called, deflecting first a slice from Ciri, and then pivoting easily to cut away a thrust aimed for his left side from Drizella. “…I could use someone else on _my_ team…” Jaskier chuckled, fingers returning to the strings.  
  
“My apologies, Drizella darling…but he does have a bit of an edge on me!” He called with a wicked smile. The Kelpie rolled her eyes, dancing sideways as Geralt lunged.  
It was late afternoon on the third day of their reprieve in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier sat at his ease upon an old wooden table in the main courtyard in front of the keep with his lute on his knees, watching Ciri and Drizella spar against Geralt. Drizella wasn’t a half-bad swordsman, which was probably all to the best considering where they were headed tomorrow. The young princess herself also seemed to be holding her own rather well, and though Jaskier knew next to nothing about sword-play, even he could pick out the similarities between she and Geralt’s movements. Hell, he probably wouldn’t prove all that terrible either if he had Geralt teaching him… _that_ was a laugh-worthy thought indeed.  
  
“I’m sure he’s put a remarkable _edge_ on your _sword_ …” A deep feminine voice snarked from behind him, and Jaskier didn’t need to turn around to know that it belonged to Yennefer.  
  
“ _Killjoy_ …” Jaskier muttered savagely, keeping his back to her and continuing his idle plucking of chords. The mage heaved an exasperated sigh behind him, and he felt the table shift slightly as she settled herself upon it, careful to keep a couple feet of distance between them. For a long moment, the soft clang of steel rang loudly in their ears as each struggled to find the right words.  
  
“We were so alike, he and I…” She began, but the bard interrupted her;  
  
“Not to be rude or anything…” Jaskier began, but a strange twist of anger suddenly seemed to monopolize his reason. He half turned toward her, but still found himself unable to meet her eyes and instead merely spat the words over his shoulder. “Actually, yes…to be _absolutely_ as rude and snappish as possible, I feel I must tell you that, being _forcibly_ immersed in the torrid soup of your little love affair, even after all these years, has left a foul enough taste in my mouth to last a bloody _lifetime_ , so…”  
  
Undaunted, Yen raised her chin defiantly; she might not be in love with him anymore, but the memories were still painful, and Melitele be damned if she was going to allow this idiot to lay waste to her still-healing wounds.  
  
“Jaskier, for _godssake_ …do you need to hear me say it? Is that what you want? The fucking soppy, doe-eyed looks he gives you when he thinks no one’s looking not enough? The fact that he spent the entire winter trying to come up with enough reasons to convince himself he was worthy enough to be near you again not strong enough testimony?” She could see by the way the bard’s shoulders rose and fell heavily that he knew nothing of Geralt’s tortured mind-set, but more than that she knew it in her heart that the witcher would never say anything. It gave the words an extra bite…and she hated herself for the brief pleasure she took from the pain. She breathed deeply through her nose, steeling herself; “He… _loves_ …you…” She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing the taste of the words like a bitter potion. When Jaskier said nothing, she went on;  
  
“I’ve only been to Skellige once…beautiful place…” She spoke slowly and carefully, as though it were taking a great toll on her to continue talking. “…you wouldn’t believe the storms there…waves smashing into cliffs that have no right to even still be standing, quelling the raging turbulence with a steadfast beauty. It was amazing just to watch, to be a part of it…” Her voice was calm, but sad and Jaskier couldn’t help but feel his anger slowly ebbing away.  
  
“You _are_ the cliff, Jaskier…the sun after a hard frost, a candle in the dark…as different from him as a bird is from a fish; and in that way, you are what I can never be.”  
  
They were silent for a long moment; Jaskier didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt rooted to the surface of the wooden table, his limbs long numbed out by the weight of her words, but he slowly shifted until he was facing her. Her purple eyes shone with emotion, and her brow was drawn. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he spoke;  
  
“What, pray tell, would that be?” He whispered softly, forcing his blue eyes to meet hers.  
  
“Balance…” She answered with a small smile that didn’t soften the sorrow behind her eyes. “Power is a cruel mistress…I guess you could say we were too much of a good thing…too much take and not enough give…it’s no way to live…”  
  
“I’m writing that one down…” Jaskier said croakily and her smile widened a fraction. Slowly, he took her hand from the table top and held it between his, it quivered slightly in his grasp.  
  
At that moment, a ‘whoop’, a roar of laughter, and a resounding _‘fuck’_ had both of them staring around at the trio of warriors, sweating and panting in the courtyard before them. Ciri had apparently abandoned her sword and had instead flung herself around Geralt’s neck from behind, and Drizella was laughing now, her practice sword pointed half-heartedly at the witcher’s chest. He raised his hands to the side in a gesture of surrender, his deep chuckle carrying across the courtyard. Jaskier turned back to Yen to see a malevolent grin spreading on her face. He cocked his head at her as she raised her fingers toward the threesome. Comprehension dawned on Jaskier’s face and his head whipped back around right at the moment that a mix of ear-splitting squeals of renewed laughter rent the air.  
  
Drizella had dropped her sword and was doubled over, clutching her sides as tears of mirth streamed over her cheeks. Ciri gasped between fits, sliding off of Geralt and onto all fours, convulsing as waves of glee overwhelmed her. The witcher turned, utterly confused, toward the place where he and Yen sat. Jaskier had a fist crammed in his mouth and the mage snorted into her free hand. As always, Ciri’s honesty could be counted on.  
  
“Mistress Yennefer! _Pleeeeaaaaaase_!!...” She wailed between fits of laughter, “…that fucking tickles!! Stop!” With a flick of her wrist, Yennefer released the thread of magic, and the two women slowly pushed themselves up, gasping for air. Geralt glared at Ciri as she stood, opening his mouth to reprimand her foul mouth but she cut him off;  
  
“Oh, don’t even, you say it often enough for all of us combined…” She provided, sheathing her sword and striding over to the table to join Jaskier and Yen. Drizella and Geralt followed suit.  
  
“Good show, princess!” Jaskier praised as she drew level with him, “You might even be better than ol’ Geralt here soon enough…” She giggled sweetly, plunking down on the bench next to Jaskier.  
  
“I want to see you swap that hunk of wood for a sword, bard and put your energy into something of actual use…” Drizella said breathlessly, twirling the hilt in her hand and extending it toward Jaskier, whos eyes widened.  
  
“Ohhhh, no, no, no…thank you… a more likely scenario in which to sustain a _number_ of self-inflicted wounds, I cannot fathom, so unless you have need of an armless bard…” He wanted the words back immediately as they left his lips, but it was too late.  
  
“…Actually…” Yennefer, Geralt and Drizella chorused…  
  
“Oh shut up…” Jaskier huffed indignantly.  
  
“Go on, then…” Drizella wheedled, hefting the hilt toward him. Jaskier blew out a great sigh, un-slinging his instrument and laying her carefully upon the table, (‘Don’t worry, my sweet…no sword shall take the place of thy tender touch’) before sliding off the edge and grasping the hilt with surprisingly steady fingers.  
  
“Gods, I’m going to regret this…” Slowly, he raised his eyes to Geralt who stood with one foot up on the wooden bench behind Ciri, sword point down and forearms folded over the pommel, the merest hint of a smirk on the corners of his lips. His eyes flitted to Ciri, face alight with anticipation; to Yen, a shit-eating grin on her smooth lips; and back to Drizella, who winked, relinquishing the blade. Without a word, Geralt removed his boot from the bench and walked back out into the middle of the courtyard. Jaskier gulped, (‘Just a butter knife…just a _large_ butter knife’) and strode out to meet him. The sword was heavy and he was un-practiced at wielding one, so he decided on a two-handed grip.  
“Hopefully, I need not remind you to go easy on me Geralt…unless you want to spend every night from now until my last breath alone and wanting…” Jaskier murmured, but he was grasping at straws. The witcher’s smile only widened.  
  
“Open your stance.” He growled, sword still resting idle in his right hand as he circled Jaskier. It made him feel a bit like a cornered rabbit as he toed his feet wider. He heard the other man sigh behind him before he felt hands on his elbows, lifting them slightly, pressing upon the top of his shoulder and manipulating his grip. He could feel the heat radiating through his tunic and seeping into his backside as Geralt pressed against him.  
  
“Here, here, and here…OK?” Geralt murmured in his ear, guiding his hands through a set of defensive movements. Jaskier shivered as Geralt allowed his fingers to linger a moment longer than was needed before moving around to face him. He raised his great broadsword and nodded once. Jaskier raised his own blade and he watched the bard lick his lips, brow furrowed rather adorably in focused concentration… With a swift lunge, Geralt brought his weapon down vertically and then swung immediately into Jaskier’s left side before pivoting and whirling it in a slow-motion half-arc toward his right. He did everything much more slowly, allowing Jaskier to counter him easily with the motions he had shown him. “Good.” He smiled as he stepped back, relishing the nervous grin on the other man’s face. “Again. Quicker this time.” He readied his blade and leapt forward once more, repeating the motions almost fast enough to be considered real time, and Jaskier landed every deflection seamlessly. “ _Very_ good.” His smile widened as he strode forward and clapped Jaskier’s shoulder with a gentle squeeze. The bard beamed at him, blue eyes a fucking river that threatened to carry Geralt away, and he wouldn’t have minded in the least. Geralt hesitated, fingers lingering on his shoulder. Jaskier’s smiled wavered a bit as his eyes searched his face questioningly.  
  
“Fuck it.”  
  
He slid his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and swooped down upon his lips in a kiss. With a clatter of steel on stone, he felt the bard’s fingers grip his arms, felt the small sigh of affection against his lips. Breaking away, he grinned crookedly down into Jaskier’s face; cheeks flushed pink and eyes slightly glazed.  
  
“Oh, I’m _definitely_ writing a song about this…” Jaskier breathed as he allowed Geralt to take his hand and lead them back toward the now-giggling-furiously table of women. He cleared his throat, trying to usher his blood cells back into his brain. “I can almost see why you enjoy swinging that over-grown steak knife around, Geralt. I could even…dare I say, _get used to it_ …Now, every good knight needs a title…How about: Jaskier the magnificent; who’s mad sword skills were too much even for The White W—“  
  
“I said you did good...I never said quit your day job…” Geralt grumbled, but unable to keep the wide grin off his face.  
  
***  
  
“ _Battle of the Bards?_...” Ciri repeated, utterly disbelieving…  
“That’s right…” Jaskier replied with a wink, “…t’was a competition, you see…”  
“That’s not a thing…there’s no way that’s a thing…” Drizella murmured around a huge mouthful of roast pheasant. Yennefer snorted into her wine with a look at Geralt as if to ask, ‘Is this thing for real?’, the witcher grinned back at her.  
  
“Geralt…Ger _alt_ …you of all people know what a no-account, pestilent bastard Valdo Marx was…is…help me out here…?”  
  
“I thought you were ready to fight your own battles?” the witcher replied, just managing to chew his food around a condescending smirk. Jaskier’s jaw dropped open;  
  
“Ohhh, no you did _NOT_?” He puffed vexedly, glowering at the witcher from across the table.  
They were all dining in the main hall, one last hurrah before leaving in the morning, and Jaskier had been regaling Ciri with stories from his days as a student at Oxenfurt, reassuring her that university life was not all it was cracked up to be and that she ought to feel proud to be receiving so much top-drawer, one-on-one education. The princess answered him with a grumble directed at her plate of food, but Jaskier thought he caught the words ‘home-schooled’ and ‘jungle freak’ right before she shoveled a large fork-full of herbed potatoes in.  
  
“Most of the finest musicians come out of Oxenfurt.” Vesemir said from the head of the table, throwing the bard a bone, but his company was quick to snatch it away.  
  
“’ _Most’_ being the operative word…” Drizella scoffed to another guffaw of laughter from Yen, and a glare from Geralt that implied the teasing was over.  
  
“So, who won?” Ciri asked, prodding a chunk of beet half-heartedly across her plate. Jaskier took a deep swallow of mead.  
  
“A swig of drink like that means ‘Valdo Marx’” Geralt proffered, tipping his own mug toward Jaskier in a commiserating sort of way.  
  
“Oh…” The princess said softly, her face falling. They were all quiet for a few moments. Ciri furrowed her brow, thinking, and then she laid a hand on the bard’s; “Would you sing us something tonight? Something from mother’s betrothal? I miss her…and grandmother too…” Jaskier turned his eyes to her with what he hoped was a comforting smile and squeezed her hand.  
  
“Of course…” he replied softly, catching her chin with his other hand and stroking her cheek gently with his thumb. “I dunno what these witchers with their hearts of stone have been telling you, but the ones we love in life never truly leave us in death…they give you strength and guidance even still.” The princess smiled weakly, unshed tears threatening her eyes and turned hurriedly back to her plate to hide the emotions. Jaskier caught Geralt’s eye and nodded briefly before taking up his mug and draining it. Geralt fought a strong urge to haul him over the table by the scruff of his blouse and kiss him until he couldn’t speak.  
  
Vesemir pushed his chair back and took up the pitcher of mead, striding around the edge of the table and halting behind Jaskier.  
  
“I propose a toast!” He rumbled, filling the bard’s mug and then stopped as Ciri thrust her own cup into the air. He chuckled richly, “…I suppose one of us has to be the bad influence…” he crooned and tipped the pitcher so that a half-pints worth trickled into the mug. Once the old witcher had made it around to the head of the table again, he raised his own cup and everyone at the table followed suit.  
  
“To those we have lost…may we continue to draw wisdom and strength from the memories we cherish…and to your continued good health, and a hope of victory as you go forth tomorrow. Cheers.”  
  
“Cheers.” Echoed the table, drinking deeply.  
  
The last orange rays of evening had been long since swallowed by a moonless night as the six of them drank through the remainder of the mead, Geralt resolutely holding the pitcher out of the reach of Ciri’s wandering fingers to a resigned grumble. Jaskier soothed the collective haze with several songs, including one he had composed specifically for Calanthe. Vesemir dragged them back out of the consequential brooding reverie by suggesting they all play a few rounds of Gwent before retiring. Geralt won the first game with Vesemir not far behind him, but Ciri claimed the winner’s title of the second game by stealing Yen’s lead in the second round.  
  
“My brain feels like a bloody bucket of pig slop…” Drizella said, no longer bothering to stifle a huge yawn. “I’m out…” She pushed back from the table and exited the dining hall. Geralt followed suit, rousing a nodding Jaskier, and Ciri, whos chin was a millimeter away from dropping out of the palm she was leaning into. Yen turned to Vesemir as the door swung closed.  
  
“Are you sure about this?”  
  
“Geralt will do what is needed.” The old witcher murmured in a smoky voice, but Yen could have sworn she saw a flicker of something in his eyes…uncertainty? Conflict?  
  
“Vesemir, is there something you’re not telling me?” The witcher didn’t answer right away, merely stared into the dying embers within the hearth. They made his eyes glow a rich amber…he seemed suddenly older than she had ever seen him.  
  
“I’m tired. You have a long journey ahead. Take some rest, Yennefer…we must focus now on what we can control.” The old witcher smiled at her before rising and making his way out of the hall.  
  
***  
  
_… … …. … … ….  
  
…Geralt’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright as a rumble like thunder threatened to toss him from the writing desk at which he sat. ‘What the fuck?’ he whispered. Another rumble sent several books crashing to the floor and he leapt unsteadily from his chair and strode to the door, flinging it open. Eskel stood in the hall, steadying himself upon the ancient stone, a look of wide-eyed terror on his face.  
  
“What’s going on?” Geralt asked in an urgent whisper.  
  
“I don’t know…but I saw Vesemir take Verin…not half an hour ago…”  
  
“Shit…” Geralt growled, and without another word, he stole down the still rumbling hall.  
  
… … ….  
  
…“Verin! STOP!” Geralt struggled to push himself back upright as the stone beneath him heaved again. With an effort, he half-ran, half-scambled over the threshold of the huge chamber. His eyes darted to the left where Vesemir lay. He ran to him and clasped his wrist; unconsious, but alive. He returned his attention immediately to the scene before him; Verin had his fist clutched around Bolek’s throat as the mage’s fingers scrabbled to remove the syringe that Verin held aloft in his other hand. Geralt watched in horror as he tossed the mage bodily from the dais upon which they stood. Laughing maniacally, Verin plunged the needle into his arm, his body arching unnaturally as twice the amount of mutagen serum flooded his veins. From his crumpled heap on the floor, Bolek raised his wrist preparing to Aard. Verin was screaming now as he threw his hands in front of him, catching the weave of magic and hurling it back at the mage who crashed into a pillar and didn’t move. Verin laughed again, eyes jet black as he stood. Geralt fought to steady his breath as he shrank back into the shadows. Edging back over to Vesemir, he took up his sword. The old witcher’s blade was heavy in his hands, and he grasped it in both of his fists. Barely drawing breath he picked his way through the shadows until he was directly behind the older boy, who stood in the center of the hall with his head thrown back, breathing raggedly. With a roar, Geralt lunged at his back, knocking the other off balance and sending him crashing face first to the floor. With a roar, Geralt leapt from the dais until he was standing over Verin, Vesemir’s sword pointed at his chest. He stared down into the black-eyed gaze of his fellow, only to find he no longer recognized him at all.  
  
“Go on and do it then…prove that you’re ready, Geralt…”  
  
He couldn’t…he fucking couldn’t…fuck…  
  
... … ….  
  
“…Never wondered what it felt like to be your own master…”  
Geralt struggled to breathe, scratching red lines into the fingers closing around his throat. A high, cruel laugh…  
  
“…you will die with the knowledge that you’re nothing…a puppet on a string…too weak…too pathetic…”  
Geralt fought to remain conscious as the black eyes of Verin above him seemed to multiply, when abruptly, the weight as lifted…air rushed like a torrent back into his lungs and he rolled over choking and wretching against the stone floor tiles…screams…yells from behind him…Vesemir’s voice…his mother’s…Renfri’s…Jaskier’s…  
  
“Geralt…”…  
  
… … …. … … …._  
  
“Geralt…” Jaskier shook him more vigorously, his heart pounding as the witcher murmured and twitched. “ _Geralt_ …!” he said louder, placing his hands against the other man’s shoulders. Finally, golden eyes snapped open and Geralt brushed him away, sitting bolt upright and gasping for air, rubbing his throat. Jaskier retreated, giving him space. Exhaling heavily, the witcher scrubbed his hands through his coarse silvery-white length. Tentatively, Jaskier schooched closer and laid a hand on Geralt’s back, he didn’t flinch.  
  
“You were having a nightmare, Geralt…you were yelling for Verin to stop…something…” Jaskier trailed off quietly. Geralt didn’t reply, merely remained at the opposite edge of the bed with his head in his hands.  
“You don’t have to tell me now…but if there’s any reason your relationship with Alda could…complicate things…”  
  
“No…” the witcher cut him off, sighing again and straightening, golden eyes going to the window, where only the light of the stars offered a low-lit glow.  
“I told you I had heard the mutations had killed him…In many ways they had, by the time I got there. He wasn’t himself…he had subdued his mage, and taken on more of the decoction than he could handle…I tried to stop him and it nearly cost me my life. Vesemir came to just in time…I couldn’t kill him…I couldn’t make myself do it…” Geralt trailed off in a low whisper that nonetheless seemed to echo off the walls of the bed chamber. Jaskier barely dared to breathe. Slowly, he inched closer, slinging his legs around Geralt’s hips and slipped his arms around his waist. He said nothing as he planted a soft kiss on his witcher’s shoulder, resting his chin in the crook of his neck. They said nothing more for several long moments. Presently, Geralt laid his own arms upon Jaskier’s thighs and leaned his head into his.  
  
“Geralt…I’m not going to pretend I understand how you feel…but I am going to tell you that there isn’t a doubt in my mind that you will do what’s right. That’s always been you…you’ve always put more stock in what’s right rather than what’s easy…it’s why I…” Jaskier faltered a bit, swallowing uncomfortably, “…what I love about you…” he finished, hoping he wasn’t letting his mouth run away with him.  
  
Geralt felt a small smile quirk his lips as he shifted until he was facing his bard. His bright blue eyes glowed uncertainly in the shroud of darkness that surrounded them, and a faint twang of hesitation rolled off of him, slithering into Geralt’s nose, sending goosebumps rising on his skin. He slid his hands over Jaskier’s thighs and pulled him in so he was straddling Geralt’s lap. He traced his fingers over his chest and up his slender neck until his hands cupped his face and he pulled him closer until their foreheads touched.  
  
“I love you too.” He whispered against Jaskier’s lips before taking them in a slow, languid kiss that earned him a rather relieved whimper as the bard melted forward into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods, this fic is, in true form, turning out to be longer than originally anticipated but I hope that's okay. I will try to update sooner than the weekend, but no promises. Cheers!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the final countdooowwwn! duh nuh nuh nuuuuuhhhh….duh nuh nu nun nuuuuuuuhhhhh!  
> Okay so most of this chap was typed up in the lingering hours between getting off work at my muggle job and sleep...a.k.a with limited brain cells remaining so sorry if there are errors, but my schedule is changing and I have a short weekend, so I wanted to update.  
> So, apparently in The Witcher game, Ciri's horse is named "Kelpie"....hahahahaha….I literally just found this out
> 
> Also...in my mind's live action representation of this fic, Gal Gadot is Drizella and Rufus Sewell is Bolek Sanz

The next morning dawned bright and cool, but the frost that covered the ground seemed weak; more of an afterthought to the burgeoning spring that threatened even the land of Kaer Morhen. Geralt turned his golden eyes to the still-sleeping tangle of legs and blankets that was Jaskier next to him. He smiled, a part of him still half expecting to wake from this dream at any moment. He reached over with soft fingers and swept the curtain of brunette fringe that obscured his forehead to the side. The bard sighed contentedly in his sleep, but did not stir. Geralt swallowed thickly as he allowed his hand to settle over the curve of Jaskier’s slender hip. What the fuck was he doing? It had been easy to forget about the impending danger with his bard’s legs wrapped around his hips, sweat dampened hair plastered to his neck, begging him to fuck the very breath from his lungs. Now, the weight of what they were about to do settled into his chest like a stone to the ocean’s floor. Jaskier had a bad enough habit of getting himself in to trouble without Geralt’s help. How in the hell was he supposed to be expected to not only lead him into danger, yet somehow ensure that he didn’t get a knife in his rather magnificent backside at the same time? “fuck…” Geralt whispered to himself as Jaskier snorted in his sleep. He squeezed his eyes shut, rolling onto his back; the whole situation was shit…it was for this very reason that witchers could not reproduce…it was for this very reason that witchers were encouraged to choke down their emotions and avoid falling in bloody, fucking, godsforsaken love…because it made you go stupid and reckless and do crazy things you wouldn’t otherwise…and those were all things Geralt couldn’t afford to be or do, today or ever…but he had fallen…like a moth to a bloody flame and there was no going back…no un-saying the words. A familiar gut-wrenching twist made the bile rise in his throat…fear. He forced away images of Jaskier; paper white and bleeding, Geralt running up the rocky slope away from the carnage of the griffin. Except instead of a griffin it was now Verin Alda’s face; contorted in a psychotic grimace. The feeling fanned from where it had formed in his gut like a cauldron of acrid poison threatening to overflow, turning his mouth to ash and made all the worse by a second even more despairing thought…even if he were to ask Jaskier to stay behind, he knew the bard would have none of it. He had promised that he would let him make his own choices about his immersion in Geralt’s dangerous life-style…the trouble was, he didn’t know if he would be strong enough to pick up the pieces if things went sour. Gods, when had everything become so fucking complicated? It was no longer a question of if he was up shit creek without a paddle…he had willingly swam up the damn tirade, chucked his paddle overboard and readily poked holes in the boat…all because the water was a shade of blue that he was powerless to resist and tasted like milk and honey. He knew he would make the choice to drown over and over again.  
A smooth warm hand slithering through the soft silver curls of his chest snapped him out of his reverie.  
  
“Someone call the fire services…” Jaskier murmured sleepily, not opening his eyes, “…I can smell smoke…coming out of your _ears_ , witcher…” Geralt didn’t turn, merely closed his fingers around Jaskier’s hand as though he might never let it go. Sensing the feeling of unrest radiating off the other man, Jaskier yawned and propped his head up, blearily searching Geralt’s face; it was pinched with worry, golden eyes appraising the ceiling as though they held all of the answers to his unspoken questions. Jaskier frowned…he was no fool. He had had enough practice at reading the witcher’s body language to have a pretty good idea of what was on his mind.  
  
“You’re worried…about today…about where we’re going…about me…” He extracted his hand with some difficulty and caught a stray lock of Geralt’s loose silvery mane and tucked it behind his ear. “Geralt, I told you before…you can’t worry about me like this…” He leaned in and nuzzled the crook of Geralt’s neck, licking his ear and eliciting a deep growl before cupping his chin and tilting his face so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. “I’ve made my decision.” Jaskier felt like he could have dedicated an entire ballad to the pools of liquid gold that held him captive. Geralt sighed;  
  
“Asking me not to worry about you is like asking the river to change course, or a fish to breathe air, Jaskier…” Geralt said in that quintessential bass rumble, “…I just…I can’t lose you…”  
Jaskier swallowed heavily, hot tears threatening the corners of his eyes as he stared, unblinking down at his lover.  
  
“Very well…” He whispered throatily, “We’ll both worry then…we’ll both worry about each other…” and then added for good measure, “I’m sure I could do some heavy damage with a lute in the interim of improving my sword skills…” He dredged up a small smile, and Geralt’s eyes softened as he snaked his hands behind Jaskier’s neck and kissed him.  
“Because not worrying would be like asking a Kikimora to enter a beauty pageant…” Jaskier mocked, pulling away and cocking his eyebrow roguishly down at the witcher who rolled his eyes, “…or, or…asking a witcher to string more than five words together…” Jaskier forged ahead, the amusement growing on his face and in his voice as Geralt threw him a scathing smile, sitting up and pushing him off. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress.  
  
“…Or…like asking a bard to shut the hell up?” He taunted over his shoulder, landing himself a wallop upside the head with a pillow.  
  
***  
  
The lower level of the main keep buzzed chaotically as they made their final preparations to leave. Yen had finally convinced a begrudging Geralt to let her portal them to the border of Kovir, and they had each taken turns telling off an infuriated Ciri that she was not, under any circumstances to follow them. Nilfgaardian guerilla forces had been steadily making their way into the northern kingdoms en masse since the fall of Cintra. The girl had even managed to cast Quen over the main entrance in an effort to waylay their leave-taking, giggling furiously as an unsuspecting Jaskier strode headlong into the flows just as Geralt felt his medallion vibrate. An unimpressed Vesemir scolded her sharply as Jaskier rubbed his nose; it was still faintly bruised from its encounter with the tree branch during their flight from Posada.  
  
Finally, the four of them made their way out into the courtyard, Vesemir guiding a sullen Ciri in front of him. Two horses already stood tied and ready to a hitch just off the main door; Geralt’s own Roach and Yennifer’s gelding , Konik. Vesemir stepped forward, embracing Geralt warmly.  
  
“Trust your instincts…trust your emotions…” He grated, pulling away and clapping Geralt on the shoulder with a fatherly smile. He turned to Yen, “Be wary of Bolek Sanz…I fear awakening his wrath will be like drawing a tiger out of the shadows…” He brushed her cheek with his fingers and she smiled a bit weakly. Striding down the line to Drizella, he took her hands in his; “It’s been an honor, Kelpie…take care of yourself.” Drizella nodded and the old witcher’s smile broadened. Lastly, he came to Jaskier, and laid a large, knobbly hand upon his shoulder. “Take heart, bard…courage is oft found in even the most unlikely of places…and you have some strength in you…that…” He trailed off, leaving the words unfinished in the cool morning air between them. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s eyes on them as Vesemir extended his other hand, revealing a slender short sword. He held the weapon out to Jaskier, who accepted it with trembling fingers. “It was mine back in the day…” He answered the questioning look in Jaskier’s eyes. “…let us hope the company of a witcher is an effective enough weapon, but you can’t be too careful…” He said matter-of-factly, then added “..that, and I’ve never heard of any monster being… _pontificated_ to death.” He winked as Jaskier’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“You might be surprised…” Geralt murmured as Yen and Drizella snickered.  
  
“Thanks?...I think?...” Jaskier replied scathingly as the old witcher leaned closer;  
  
“Take care of him…” He said in barely more than a whisper, and Jaskier knew the words had nothing to do with his mediocre sword skills. Vesemir stepped away with a wink as Ciri ran forward, hugging Jaskier around the middle. Smiling, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders.  
  
“Will I see you again?” She asked uncertainly;  
  
“Most definitely.” Jaskier replied, pulling back and matching her blue-eyed gaze.  
The princess made her own way through her farewells, ending with Geralt. She stood resolutely before him, looking determinedly into his face.  
  
“Soon, you’ll run out of excuses to keep me here…” She said flatly.  
  
“True enough…” Geralt returned, “…but for now…take pity on an old man…and grant me the solace of knowing you will be safe.” She sighed dejectedly as the witcher pulled her into a one-armed hug. She stepped back with Vesemir as Yen turned her back to the party, preparing to open a portal. With a crack like a branch snapping, a beautiful black mare took the place of Drizella’s slender human form next to Jaskier, making him jump slightly. Geralt took up Roach and Konik’s reins as the air thickened around them. Yen stood with her arms stretched before her as the vortex of air she had conjured slowly revolved into a gateway. Jaskier could just glimpse what looked like a rugged mountain landscape caped in a dense fog. Geralt strode forward first, horses whickering dispassionately behind him. Steeling himself, Jaskier followed in his wake, Drizella plodding along freely at his shoulder. He turned to watch as Yennefer stepped carefully onto the other side of the gateway. With a last glance at Vesemir and Ciri, she allowed the portal to snap shut.  
  
***  
  
According to Drizella, it was a four day ride to the mine. Their first day of travel was largely and blessedly uneventful and they rode more or less in silence, a thick veil of foreboding settling amongst them as each clop of hooves brought them ever closer. Jaskier made every attempt to keep the mood light by strumming placidly as they rode, but even he lapsed into a melancholy silence as the day wore on.  
As the sun dipped low behind the mountains off to their left, Geralt abruptly turned off the path, instructing them to wait quietly as he dismounted and made his way into the thicket of trees. Fifteen minutes later, the snapping of twigs underfoot signaled his return, wild white mop of hair standing out against the deepening twilight.  
  
“There’s a clearing just through here…should be a sufficient enough place to make camp.”  
One by one, they followed him into the forest for several minutes until the curtain of greenery gradually gave way into a small open expanse of ground. Jaskier slid carefully off of Drizella’s back and the Kelpie transformed moments later, yawning and stretching. Geralt strode over to Jaskier and cupped his chin affectionately before setting about unrolling their bedding. Yen got a fire going with Igni and she and Drizella set about making a stew. They spoke few words and laughed only tentatively, the weight of what they were up against weighing heavily on their minds.  
  
“Anyone care for a bit of liquid courage?” Jaskier asked, quirking a smile as he rummaged in his saddle bag, producing a bottle of a dark, amber liquor. “Kaer Morhen’s finest…the 1215 vintage…very good year I’m told…” He said matter-of-factly, winking at Geralt; it was the year the witcher had been born.  
  
Soon enough, they were laughing and swapping stories as the bottle made its way around their circle, lightening the mood considerably. Jaskier let his head drop onto Geralt’s shoulder and felt the other man shift closer until their hips touched. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy as Drizella talked of the places she and Brohn dreamed of seeing once they were free.  
  
“Who’s Brohn?” Jaskier asked, wiping liquor from his chin and passing the bottle to Geralt. Her soft dark eyes betrayed a quiet sadness as she turned toward him.  
  
“He is my husband…he is also being held prisoner.” She said, jaw clenching as she dropped her gaze. After a few moments of pained silence, Geralt leaned around the small fire and handed her the bottle. She drained the last of it, giving the witcher a nod of gratitude as words unspoken passed between them. No one seemed to have anything to say after that.  
  
***  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
_… He crouched low, shaking fingers reaching tentatively toward the shivering ball of brown fur upon the ground in front of him. Blood seeped from a sizeable gash across the rabbit’s flank. Biting his lower lip, brow furrowed in a tight grimace, a young Geralt cupped his hands around the little creature. Perhaps he could do…something…something to help it.  
  
“What’s that?” A high, cruel voice called from over his shoulder as a boy of about ten years strode around to face him. Verin Alda scowled down at the ground between Geralt’s feet, tilted eyes taking in the sight of the wounded rabbit and the worried frown on Geralt’s face.  
  
“Give it to me…” He whispered, feigning concern as he crouched in front of Geralt, holding out his hands. “I know just how to fix it…” He donned a look dripping with mocking distress for emphasis, but the younger boy was already tipping the frail little ball of fur into his outstretched hands…weak…gullible…stupid…Verin turned the rabbit over in his hands as Geralt looked on anxiously; a smile curled the corners of his lips.  
With a sickening crack, Verin twisted the animals neck until it snapped and threw it to the ground as Geralt cried out, lunging forward and tackling him, but Verin pinned him easily, grinding his wrists painfully into the dirt.  
  
“You’re pathetic…can’t even kill a rabbit…” Geralt blinked stars out of his vision as the full force of Verin’s fist met the side of his face. As suddenly as the blow had come, he felt the weight of Verin’s body release him. He struggled up as a metallic taste filled his mouth. Verin smirked spitefully as Geralt glared back, breathing heavily through his nose. “No room for fuck-ups like you in the world little runt…” He scoffed, before turning on his heel and striding back toward the keep. Geralt followed his exit with his eyes until the crunch of his steps faded into silence. He turned back to the spot where the lifeless form of the rabbit lay, eyes widening in horror as two bright blue, human eyes stared, lifeless, from under a curtain of brown fringe…_  
  
… … …. … … ….  
  
Geralt’s eyes shot open as he jerked awake.

“Can’t sleep?” Yennefer’s voice cut through his brooding narcosis, but he had smelled jasmine long before the words had ever left her lips. His eyes flickered to her as she strode around the edge of the fallen tree upon which he sat. “…I could offer you a little something to help…”  
  
“No.” He cut in, golden eyes flitting automatically back toward the small clearing where Jaskier lay asleep. She nodded shortly and settled herself upon the slightly mossy log, arranging her skirts needlessly. The silence between them grew as they both gazed upward through a gap in the canopy. It was a clear night, and the sky was dappled with the light of thousands of stars. Finally she drew a tentative breath and broke the thick silence between them;  
  
“Geralt, I know you’re worried…” She began, but he was in no mood…  
  
“You need not patronize me, Yennefer…and if I wanted a pep talk, I would have asked.” He grated, pointedly not meeting her condescending gaze.  
  
“Gods, you are stubborn as an ox…” she scoffed, “Geralt, what’s really bothering you? Don’t shut me out…”  
  
“That’s rich, coming from you…” He wasn’t sure what made him do it…they had finally managed to develop a new rhythm over the last six months; blessedly uninterrupted by memories of what had happened after the dragon. Why he was choosing now to open the wounds was beyond him…it wasn’t like he had feelings for her anymore, but neither had he been the one to shatter their chances on the mountain that fateful day. It was where trying to do the right thing had landed him, and they hadn’t really discussed it since. A wave of fury rolled off of her, stinging his nostrils as she turned to face him.  
  
“Fuck you, Geralt. It takes two idiots to steer a cart off of a cliff; the driver that makes the choice, and the sorry ass who follows his lead. Don’t you dare lay this solely at my feet.”  
  
“…And which one am I in this metaphor of yours? I didn’t storm off that mountain…” He growled, turning to her at last to glare into her livid violet scowl. “I saved your fucking life…”  
  
“Oh, my bloody hero…you abused your position!” She hissed. “Did you really expect me to live happily ever after with the knowledge that you had quite literally bartered for my affections? Saving someone’s life doesn’t grant you ownership over it!”  
  
“I wasn’t trying t—“  
  
“I know…” She cut him off, voice notably softer. He puffed a sigh, dropping his gaze and ground his heel in the dirt. She realized she had been holding her breath and exhaled slowly.  
“Funny the choices we make through the blinders of fear…” She chuckled mirthlessly under her breath, “…You _did_ save my life, Geralt…and for that I will always thank you, but we both made mistakes…” she breathed slowly for a few more moments, searching for the right words, “…It would have ended sooner or later despite your wish…I know you know that as well as I do…” She whispered, her gaze softening. “…but more than that, seeing you two together…the way you simply… _are_ …has made me realize that which my heart has already known…” She paused, swallowing hard before going on; “Love is a strange dance…a give and take between coveting that which you hold dear…and trusting it enough to thrive and blossom under its own steam…Even now…you wish he had not come…I can see it in your eyes…” She reached tentatively across the space between them and pushed a lock of silvery-white hair behind his ear.  
  
“He’s here isn’t he?” Geralt murmured, glaring at the ground beneath his feet as though daring it to mock his pain.  
  
“Yes…” She said delicately, “…With the great White Wolf eating out of the palm of his hand…” She smiled, and Geralt looked up into her face.  
  
“For what it’s worth…I am sorry…” He said, golden eyes willing her to understand the gravity he couldn’t quite put into words.  
  
“I know.” She crooned, laying her hand platonically on his knee. “Vesemir _is right_ …Jaskier has more courage than you know…” She scooted forward until their faces were only a few inches apart and drew his hands into her own, eyes glittering in the starlight.  
  
“Better to die knowing you have _truly_ lived, than to live only to find yourself wishing for death, Geralt…” She raised the back of his hand to her lips, planting a kiss there before rising and turning back toward their camp.  
  
“Yen…” Geralt called, and she faltered, “…why did you send her after Jaskier?” It was a strange question…it felt odd even as it left his lips, but he found it only fueled his desire to know. She half turned, offering the answer over her shoulder;  
  
“Because I knew that if she could find the bard…one way or another…you would find each other…” She trailed off vaguely, turning back the rest of the way and catching his eyes once more, “…call it destiny…try to get some rest, Geralt.” She turned with a flick of her skirts, disappearing into the curtain of trees.  
  
***  
  
The following day they had been traveling for several hours when Geralt stopped suddenly, holding a fist up. They slowed to a halt, ears pricked, listening intently as the witcher’s eyes scanned the forest on either side.  
He heard it even before the arrow found its target, turning right around in his saddle as a sharp whistle split the air between them, looking on utterly helpless as the bolt struck home. He felt as though the very air had been stolen from his lungs as he leapt from his saddle, running to the back of the group. His normally slow heartbeat hammered against his ribs as he watched Jaskier slide sideways, as though in slow motion, off of Drizella’s back. Utter pandemonium ensued as Yen clambered off of Konik and sent the gelding back up the path with a slap to his hind quarters. Drizella’s distressed brays became enmeshed in the roars of what sounded like a rather large force of human baddies that issued from the trees on all sides of them, but Geralt hardly heard. He skidded to his knees next to Jaskier and cradled his head, worry pinching his features as the bard gasped and spluttered in his arms. The shouts of men drew nearer as figures began to pour from the trees around them. Drizella had transformed and she and Yen stood, creating a wall in front of Geralt and Jaskier.  
  
“It’s just the sh-shoulder, don’t _fuss_ Geralt…” Jaskier stammered, though his face was painstakingly white.  
  
“Can you stand?” The witcher muttered urgently, and at a nod from the other man, he slung his arm under Jaskier’s good shoulder and heaved him up, pausing as he felt a hand grapple at the sword across his back. He pivoted quickly, ready to rip limbs with his bare hands if he had to and found Drizella stepping away, flourishing his blade as she did so. She offered him a half smile;  
  
“Take care of him first, I promise to leave you a few…” She said breathlessly, turning back around, and it was then that Geralt was able to appreciate the full force of their situation; a large group, twenty strong at least, of ragged looking bandits where rushing from the woods around them, whirling swords and axes. Geralt could see Yen standing just in front of Drizella, arms outstretched, and he knew that the shield she had thrown up was the only reason they hadn’t been sliced into a million pieces on the spot. Not waiting to be told twice, Geralt supported a wincing Jaskier over to Roach, who was prancing in a circle, clearly fighting a flight or fight urge.  
  
“Up. Get on.” He ordered, ignoring the slew of ‘I’m fine, really’s as he helped Jaskier into the saddle. He placed Jaskier’s hands over the horn, squeezing them firmly with his own as he looked up into his bard’s face. He was pale, but his breathing was stable if a bit uneven, a good sign the arrow had missed any vital organs. Geralt winced as his eyes flickered momentarily to where the bolt protruded from his left shoulder and he tried to force down the tirade of regret….and fear that heaved unpleasantly in his gut. His head whipped around as the distinct clash of steel on steel reached his ears. Yen had released the shield and she and Drizella could be seen, cutting through the sea of ragged brigands before them.  
  
“Geralt…” Jaskier whispered, as a wave of nausea threatened to pitch him out of the saddle.  
  
“Go!” The witcher cried, drawing his silver sword and rapping the flat of the blade smartly against Roach’s flank. With a snort, the mare took off in the same direction as Konik. He watched their retreat, catching a glimpse of his bard’s ocean blue eyes, lidded with fear as he looked back at Geralt over his shoulder. With an effort, the witcher tore his gaze away and barreled back toward the two women behind him. He arrived just in time to run his blade into the back of a greasy, toothless whisp of a man who had his dagger raised aloft, preparing to plunge it into Yen’s back. She whirled around as the man fell, offering Geralt a meaningful look before pivoting quickly to the left and sinking her own short sword into the eye of a second, burlier rogue. He screamed and fell forward, clutching at his face. Geralt danced as he had been taught, pivoting and gliding smoothly through the motions without an effort. These men were obviously paid muscle, not trained swordsmen by any means and they fell easily.  
  
Suddenly, as the last trio of survivors laid down their weapons and turned to run back into the woods, a panicked scream pierced the din and both Geralt and Yen spun around; Geralt felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Drizella furiously scrabbled at the blade against her throat, as she was drug backwards. Geralt’s heart sank and the acid rose in his throat as Bolek Sanz leered at him, pitiless hazel eyes glittering maniacally. A second man stepped onto the road, striding over to stand at Bolek’s shoulder, a quiver of arrows upon his back and a bow resting idly now in his hand. Geralt recognized this man as the thief who had first accosted Drizella back in Vergen. His eyes narrowed and he growled audibly.  
  
“How’s your friend?” The man mocked, an evil leer splitting his face.  
  
“Geralt of Rivia…you’re a far cry from the pitiful little whelp I remember…” Bolek said in an oily voice, “…and Yennefer of Vengerberg unless I miss my guess. Your reputation does, indeed precede you…” He tightened his grip on Drizella’s arm, twisting it painfully into her back and she whimpered. Geralt clenched his fists, longing to wrap them around the horse thief’s throat as he swallowed thoughts of Jaskier, bleeding somewhere down the road behind them.  
  
“I’d love to stay and catch up, but sadly, I have no time for recreation…” Bolek drawled, taking a step back as the horse thief knocked an arrow to his bow and raised it threateningly. “My master is sorely missing his favorite little sprite…” He pressed the dagger into Drizella’s flesh, a bead of blood trickled down its length and she clutched fruitlessly at Bolek’s fingers. “Lucky for us, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up very soon…my master is quite looking forward to seeing you, again, whelp…and meeting the legendary Yennefer, of course…”  
A clatter of hooves behind them made Geralt turn around quickly. Jaskier was slumped over in Roach’s saddle, the hand of his good arm clasped around Konik’s reins. The witcher half made to run toward him before catching himself and, instead, returned with a glare toward Bolek and his bow-wielding thug.  
  
“…A third…how marvelous…” Bolek said gleefully. The thief raised his bow toward Jaskier and before Bolek could react, Geralt lunged forward and swung wide, silver slicing easily through flesh as blood spurted from the man’s throat, and he toppled forward. Staggering back, Bolek threw a hand behind him, ripping open a portal.  
“Until we meet again, White Wolf…” He sneered, pulling Drizella through and releasing the gateway with an electric crackle.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O.C. villians front and center as our beloved duo and bestie gal-pal mage Yennefer raise hell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early update? What is this new devilry?  
> Holy fucking shit...my fingers were literally flying a mile a minute writing this chap but in many ways it was one of the tougher ones too...cuz there's so much going on...I hope it all flows okay, cuz I'm too excited to wait the day I usually do until posting.
> 
> IMPLIED non-con in this chap, not between our boys obvi, and it's just hinted at, no actual acts but just in case.

“Wait…” Jaskier said breathlessly, his fingers shooting to Geralt’s hand as it clasped the shaft of the arrow protruding from his shoulder.  
  
“Please, take your time…” Yennefer cut in under her breath from his other side, earning herself a pair of matching glares.  
With his good hand, Jaskier reached into his back pocket, producing a small flask. He flipped it open in a fluid motion and took a long swallow before returning it and bringing his hand around to fuss, instead, with his own belt buckle. Geralt cocked an eye at him as he struggled to work the length of leather free. His head spun dizzily and his shoulder gave a painful throb. He cursed and spluttered, fingers grappling furiously with a rather stubborn loop at the back of his trousers when he felt the witcher’s hands take hold of the buckle, tugging the entire garment free in one swift motion. A small smile softened his worry-creased brow as he dangled the leather in front of Jaskier’s nose.  
  
“…Be _still_ my _heart_ …” Jaskier breathed, trying half-successfully to summon a provocative look onto his pallid face.  
  
“Oh Gods…” Yen scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Might we move along?”  
  
Geralt steeled himself, fingers once more grasping the arrow. A pained look returned to his angular face and he nodded slowly as the bard clamped the leather between his teeth. He didn’t bother with any preamble; there was no softening the pain…it made him feel helpless. Blue eyes stared unblinking at him as he tugged sharply. A petrifying cry ripped from Jaskier’s lungs and between his teeth as he arched painfully upward, hands gripping Geralt’s shoulders hard enough to bruise…and he would deserve every one of them. Tossing the bolt aside with a grimace, he hugged Jaskier to his chest as a string of ragged moans and curses ( _GODSFUCKINGBLOODYMOTHEROFCOCK!_ ) flooded from him, each one ringing in his ears like an accusation.  
  
“Geralt…” Yen’s voice broke through his torment and he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. Wincing, he lowered Jaskier’s still shaking body until he was laying propped against his knees. His hands remained cradling the bards head as his blue eyes shuddered open. Blood poured from his shoulder as Yen pressed both hands to the wound.  
  
“…You l-look like someone s-stepped on your dog, Geralt…” Jaskier whispered, trying to breathe evenly. “…Being th-thrown into The Countess De S-Stael’s moat was far worse than th-this little scratch…” he shivered bodily then as a cold sensation flooded him. His eyes drifted to the mage at his side, murmuring in Elder. The warm wetness that had been steadily seeping across his chest lessened and then stopped. Even the burning pain receded into a dull ache. His head cleared and he turned his eyes back onto the burnished gold pools of worry, swimming above him. “Turn that frown upside-down, for godssake, Geralt…” He murmured, reaching his hands up and pulling the witcher’s face down. With a hiss, Yen tugged her hands away and rose, a small smile quirking the corners of her lips.  
  
Jaskier grinned against his lover’s mouth…payback was a bitch, he thought wryly to himself as Yen began tapping her toe. They broke away and Geralt extended his hand to Jaskier who took it, allowing himself to be hauled up. He turned then and strode, a bit unsteadily, toward Yen and threw his arms around her. Caught off guard, she slowly slid her arms around Jaskier’s waist.  
  
“Thank you.” He whispered into her curtain of dark hair; the arms around him tightened affectionately.  
  
“If you two are finished, we still have a job to do…” Geralt’s gravelly voice cut in from where he was stooping to collect his steel sword. Jaskier turned on his heel, armed with several reproaches to find the witcher smiling back, effectively melting the words in his throat.  
  
“Geralt…” Yen said from behind Jaskier, “We’re still two days out, and I can’t portal directly to the mine, having never been there.” The witcher’s smile only faltered a little as he sheathed his sword.  
  
“Then we ride hard…and hope we aren’t too late.” He said, walking over to Roach and checking her saddle.  
  
“We won’t be…” Jaskier said quietly… “…or, maybe we will…fuck…” He felt Geralt and Yen’s eyes turn on him. “Alda…he won’t kill her…” He continued, staring into the trees, “He… _fancies_ her…” Jaskier trailed off in a whisper. The sound of crunching gravel seemed to echo at a hundred times normal volume as Geralt strode over and laid a hand on his good shoulder.  
  
“All the more need for haste then…” His voice was soft, but his golden eyes betrayed a twist of deep-seated hatred as Jaskier met his gaze. Geralt’s fingers slid from his shoulder to grasp his hand briefly before striding over to Roach. Yen was already mounted on Konik. Geralt swung up into his own saddle and carefully hauled Jaskier up behind him, and in cloud of dust and spray of gravel, they fled down the path without looking back.  
  
***  
  
The landscape steadily turned rockier as they made their way westward; towering pine forests giving way to a more arid landscape, littered with short scrubby evergreen shrubs and craggy spires of stone. They stopped only briefly around mid-day to water the horses, grab a meager meal of dried meat and fruit and rest briefly before returning to the road, Jaskier riding behind Yennefer now in an effort to not over-fatigue Roach. Presently, Yen drew to a halt before a gigantic looming precipice of rock that hung almost completely over the main road.  
  
“This is it…” She said, causing Geralt to halt and rein Roach back around. “Drizella told me if we make to the right of this structure and come about north, there’s a thicket of trees that will allow us to sneak in more or less un-detected…we could be there in a little over eight hours.” She glanced at Geralt who nodded.  
  
“The old ‘catch em’ with their pants down’ routine, eh?” Jaskier said daringly from behind her, then added, “…but can we check for archers? Y’know…do that magical surveillance thingy you talked about from Sodden Hill?” Even from his position behind her, he could practically see the eyeroll she procured at these words. “…S’cuse me if I, among other people, have grown rather attached to this body…rather like to keep it intact…” She scoffed loudly at that and Geralt shook his head in an ‘even-I-can’t-control-his-bloody-mouth’ sort of way. “Besides, it’d be an awful shame if I didn’t get the chance to run a few baddies through with ol’ Vezzie’s sword here…” He finished, patting the sheathed blade at his side.  
  
“Shut your mouth, bard, or I’ll shut it for you…” Yennefer muttered loftily as she steered Konik up the slope with a lurch, causing Jaskier to fling his arms around her so as not to slide off the gelding’s back. Geralt followed, chuckling softly at the look his bard threw back at him.  
  
Eight hours later found them dismounting, dusty and saddle-sore (with the exception of the witcher) on the far side of a small oasis of broad-leaf trees and shrubs. With an affectionate pat, Geralt tied off Roach and strapped both his swords across his back, striding to where Yennefer was doing the same to Konik. The sun was sinking low against the far side of the canyon across from the small copse of trees they now stood in. Geralt drew Jaskier off to the side, jaw clenching worriedly; what he wanted to say was ‘stay the fuck here so I know you will be safe and I can finally get my head on straight’. Gods help him, but even a few cruel words were a hell of a lot easier to clean up after than blood…but instead what came out was;  
  
“How’s your shoulder?” Fuck. Jaskier didn’t answer right away, simply reached a hand up to caress his cheek with an irritatingly knowing smile.  
  
“I’ll be _fine_ Geralt…” A thousand meanings hung on those seemingly simple four words. Turning, the bard strode to where Yen stood at the edge of the clearing, looking out. With a resigned ‘hmmm’, Geralt followed.  
  
They crouched at the top of a low hill, looking down into a wide valley that held the mine. Wooden scaffolding covered the cliff face on the far side and several large tunnels could be seen, running underneath the mountain. A hum of voices and shouts reached them where they lay hidden as guards and workers made their way by torchlight around the darkening camp. On the near side of their hiding spot, the backside of a large manor-like structure loomed, built up on a gigantic raised mound of sharp rock and boulders.  
  
“You’re in luck, Jas…” Yennefer said with a smile curling her lips, “No archers…” she turned toward him, violet eyes flashing. He opened his mouth to counter her, but she had already turned to Geralt, addressing him in a more serious tone; “I need to go on ahead, and see if I can locate Bolek…catching him of guard would certainly be the lesser of—”  
  
“—two evils…right…I get it.” The witcher finished her sentence with a look that stated quite plainly that he greatly disapproved of the idea of her going on alone, but as her gaze hardened, he puffed a sigh.  
  
“I’d be willing to bet your lute that you’ll find Verin in that manor house…” She went on, eyes flickering back over the scene below them, “…possibly even Bolek too, but I want to have a look around regardless…” She rose carefully, but the witcher caught her arm;  
  
“Yen…be careful…try not to do anything… _exceptionally irrational_ …” He mumbled, holding her gaze. She sniffed, a smirk creasing her brow;  
  
“Don’t worry, if Alda has retained any djinns in his service, I’ll be sure to come and find you first…” She proffered jokingly. Jaskier smothered a snort of laughter into his palm as the witcher glowered at her. She merely winked at him, and with a swish of her divided skirts was stalking away around the outer edge of the raised hillock, looking for a discreet way down.  
  
Jaskier cursed under his breath as his feet slid upon the gravel beneath him. They were picking their own way tentatively down toward the foundation of the great manor house, and he was having rather a more difficult time due in part to his right arm still being a bit twingy and decidedly unwilling to support his weight if he should stumble. In front of him, Geralt had reached the bottom and turned to extend his hand back over the last few feet that separated them, only to watch as Jaskier lost his footing entirely and stumbled forward, crashing into the witcher’s chest with almost enough force to send them both backwards into the dirt. He turned his face up to Geralt’s with an apologetic smile and shrug of his shoulders as his feet scrabbled for purchase. The witcher rolled his eyes flippantly, hands remaining under the bard’s arms as he righted himself.  
  
“I suddenly can’t decide if I should be protecting you from others or from yourself…” The witcher grated as they made their way stealthily toward the side of the foundation of rock that supported the main house. Even though Bolek’s last words about Alda expecting them rang in his head, he wasn’t about to give the man the satisfaction of strolling through the front door.  
  
“Says the man who allowed an elf to clock him unconscious…” Jaskier prodded;  
  
“ I didn’t _let_ him…I was rather pre-occupied with not being _gored_ to death…” The witcher hissed back as they edged along the rocky base.  
  
“Aren’t witchers supposed to have, like, a _sixth sense_ or something like that? Able to detect everything around them?” Jaskier shot back, not missing a beat.  
  
“Made a bit difficult when you came along and decided to monopolize several of them…something was bound to get through…” Geralt trailed off, peering around the corner of the house.  
  
“I do _love_ a little foreplay, darling, but I’m not sure whether I should smack you or kiss you for that…” Jaskier said in a dreamy voice from behind him.  
  
“How about both?” The witcher retorted, turning, but his mouth immediately filled with acid and his hand flew to the hilt of his sword as his eyes took in a struggling Jaskier being hauled backward with a hand clamped over his mouth.  
  
“Shhh! Don’t scream, _sssshhhh_!” Hissed the bard’s captor, a tall and well-built man with a wild crop of shaggy dark hair and eyes to match. Geralt hestitated as his eyes fell on the man’s neck…a dark choker of woven leather and silver ensnared his throat.  
  
“Jaskier…” He whispered meaningfully, extending his hand and nodding at the man, _Kelpie_ , who promptly released him. Breathing heavily, Jaskier stumbled forward, shaking the stranger’s hands away as he turned to get a better look at him.  
Jaskier felt his jaw drop as he, too, took in the silver-bound leather choker around the man’s neck.  
  
“Sorry about that…” The Kelpie said apologetically, “…but better to surprise a bard that surprise a witcher…” He spoke with a thick lilting accent…oddly familiar to…  
  
“You’re Brohn?” Jaskier said with a hint of disbelief in his voice.  
  
“I am.” Brohn said with a half-smile, eyes going wide as the sound of boots grew louder from around the corner. Beckoning wordlessly, he led them around the backside of the house. Peeking around, he waved again and they followed him along a line of fence to a collection of low wooden houses between the main manor and the entrance to the mine. Throwing the side door wide, he ushered them inside. They were inside a barracks, presumably for the workers. Jaskier caught the eyes of several elves and what looked like a wood nymph, her greenish skin glowing eerily.  
  
“I heard you were coming…” Brohn said, turning to look between Geralt and Jaskier. “They brought Drizella back yesterday…Verin made sure I knew…” The Kelpie turned his back and lifted his grubby tunic to reveal a raw cross-hatching of whip marks marring his skin. Jaskier gulped; there were several scarred-over marks as well. Geralt said nothing as Brohn went on; “I sent word with a guard I know who works in the dungeons…a sympathizer…Drizella told me the White Wolf and the falcon were nigh…”  
  
“ _Falcon_ , Geralt…make note…not _sparrow_ …not _lark_ …not _chicken_ …” Jaskier whispered excitedly, but the witcher silenced him with a look.  
  
“We need to get to Alda…” Geralt growled, “…but we will need all the help we can get.” All around them, elf, nymph, sylvan and selkie straightened, ears pricked. Brohn glanced around the dingy room.  
  
“We’re ready...” He said, a determined flame burned in his dark eyes, “Ever since Driz left to find you…There’s a secret passage that runs under the manor. Look for the shield. I’ll spread the word, and we’ll draw as much attention as we can.” The Kelpie said, squeezing Geralt’s shoulder. “Thank you.” He said, and without waiting for a response he turned to his own pallet and flipped over the mattress, uncovering a collection of daggers, rudimentary clubs and axes. There was a scraping of movement around the room as the odd assortment of warriors got to their feet.  
  
“Go.” Brohn whispered as Jaskier laced his fingers into Geralts. Turning quickly, the witcher led them from the hut. ( _‘Falcon…honestly!_...’)  
  
They stole silently back along the fence line toward the manor house, pausing only once they reached the looming shadows of the structure. Geralt turned his eyes to the stone feet of the foundation, eyes searching for Brohn’s clue that would reveal the secret way in. Jaskier squinted his eyes in the low light trying to be helpful, but the witcher’s eyesight in the dark far out-paced his own. Finally, as his fingers roved over the surface of a particularly large specimen, he felt rather than saw a small diamond-like mark carved into the right side of the stone.  
  
“Geralt!” He whispered elatedly, pleased at finally having been of use. The witcher jogged over to him and grinned as he pointed gleefully at the shape, but then his face fell; Brohn hadn’t said how to open it. His doubt was immediately alleviated as the witcher began to sign, and the rock glowed blue. Quen; the diamond represented a _shield_ …of _course_.  
  
“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” Jaskier swooned as the rock began to roll forward, revealing a dark passage. Grabbing him by the front of his tunic, Geralt drew him in hungrily, claiming perfectly pouted lips in a fervent kiss.  
  
“Tell me again when we make it out of here.” He replied breathlessly, and with that, they plunged forward into the dark.  
  
***  
  
“Then get out there, and do your bloody job, you moron!” Alda’s cruel voice drifted through the gap in the giant carved double doors to their left.  
  
“Yes, sir.” Came a second man’s voice. Pressed against the wall and partially obscured by a large pillar, Geralt motioned Jaskier to back further down the small side stairwell as the sound of heavy footfalls approached the doors from the opposite side. Swinging into the hall, a guard of considerable rank, judging by his livery, marched from the chamber and down the central staircase, heading in the direction of the sounds of shouts and weapons clashing from the courtyard outside; it would seem Brohn was making good on his word. As the guard disappeared, Geralt and Jaskier crept back toward the doors, listening intently and trying to discern just how many people resided within.  
  
“…shame my sweet…may have to go through with our party plans without them…” Alda’s voice continued. Whimpers…Drizella…  
  
“You’re making a big mistake…the only party to be celebrated here tonight will be in honor of your head on a pike!” Geralt’s stomach bottomed out as Jaskier clutched at his elbow with a squeak…  
_Yennefer_. A switch flipped in his head, and suddenly, sneaking around didn’t seem to matter at all anymore. Raising his boot, Geralt kicked open the doors before him, sending a spray of wooden splinters flying.  
  
“Ah! If it isn’t the Runt of Rivia, at _last_ …and his little sidekick too? Didn’t think you were much for companionship, Geralt, but the more the merrier I say…” Verin Alda was standing over a cowering Drizella who’s creamy skirts had been replaced with a horribly risqué leather harness set and she curled in on herself, refusing to meet their eyes. A silver chain, much like the one she had used on Jaskier what seemed like ages ago, stretched from the choker around her neck to Alda’s fist. Off to the right, Yennefer stood bound and blindfolded before another guard who held a crossbow aimed at her heart. Alda chuckled wickedly as he followed Geralt’s gaze around the room. Several more crossbow-wielding guards stood around the perimeter, bolts trained on the intruders.  
  
“Archers…bad luck, eh?” Jaskier whispered from behind Geralt.  
  
“My, my, such troubled faces…” Alda drawled, taking a step down from the raised dais upon which he stood, giving Drizella’s chain an unceremonious tug. She stood and followed submissively. Jaskier felt the bile rise in his throat; it was a sickening sight. With a rough gesture, Alda grabbed her elbow and swung her around in front of him. She squeezed her eyes shut as tears leaked silently over her cheeks. “As you can see, I’ve planned a little game in honor of our reunion, _witcher_ …” He spat the word with the combined distaste of knowing he was unable to claim the title himself and his hatred that Geralt had succeeded where he had failed. “I’m curious to know if you’ve changed since our days as pupils oh so long ago…” Jaskier could see Geralt’s fists clenching, hear the rumble of a growl deep in his chest as he stared Alda down. “No more rabbits this time, whelp…I’ve graduated, you see? I’m dying to know how you’ll respond now to that _pathetic_ wash of emotional drivel you so readily wear as your badge of honor…where do your loyalties _really_ lie? Beautiful mage? Or poor, tortured demoness? Although…I thought it was a witcher’s job to kill monsters?” He punctuated the words by planting a lewd kiss on Drizella’s cheek, making her gasp and cringe. Jaskier could see Geralt’s shoulders rising and falling, could practically hear the cogs whirring in his brain. He had drawn his sword as Alda spoke and now his fist clenched, indecisively around the hilt.  
  
“Geralt! Don’t listen! Just get Drizella out!” Yen screamed from the side.  
  
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier caught movement in the shadows behind the wall of guards. Brohn slithered behind a pillar, a glimmer of something sharp in his hand. Jaskier’s eyes flitted from Brohn to Geralt, who was so fixated on Verin Alda’s torment that he hadn’t seen the Kelpie. Slowly, Geralt began to lower his sword to the ground.  
  
“Geralt, _NO!_ ” Yen’s voice cried as the sword rasped against the floor tiles.  
  
“Take me instead.” He growled, not taking his eyes off of Alda’s cruel dark ones; so dark they were almost black. Jaskier’s heart slammed against his rib cage as he watched Brohn peek around the pillar at Alda’s back. His eyes flashed in horror as Alda made to step forward. Forcing a lid over the waves of panic radiating from him, Jaskier stumbled forward bumping Geralt roughly in the shoulder and shooting him a desperately meaningful look as he blundered on a few more steps. Alda halted, his hand whipping to his side as he flourished a dagger and brought it to Drizella’s throat. Jaskier stopped abruptly, throwing up his hands;  
  
“I-I think we got off on the wrong foot…it’s Julian, by the way…or _Jaskier_ , if you prefer…though I usually reserve that title for _friends_ …” Jaskier chanced a glance over Alda’s shoulder at Brohn as he barreled on, desperate to hold Alda’s attention as the Kelpie emerged from his hiding spot, drawing closer. “… _Ahem!_ So you’ll have to forgive my friend, Geralt, here…one too many whacks on the head I think…doesn’t know what he’s saying…of course, that’s sort of an occupational hazard more than anything…” Brohn was feet away, raising his dagger high over his head; Alda stared dumbstruck at Jaskier as though not seeing him properly, “…being an all-powerful witcher… _undefeated_ too…nothing gets past this White Wolf, no sir-ee, but you wouldn’t know would you? Because you got a big, _fat F_!” The bard flourished a dramatic bow as Brohn’s dagger struck home. Everything happened at once as Geralt cast Aard, throwing the line of archers, including the brute with his bow trained on Yen backward. Alda screamed, dropping the chain that held Drizella as Brohn shoved him forward down the remaining steps and hugged his beloved to him. Jaskier ran to Yen, Geralt on his heels as shouts and curses grew in the hallway. Jaskier ripped the blindfold from her eyes as Geralt cut her hands free.  
  
“I promise to never silence you again.” She breathed, embracing him quickly.  
  
“I’ll need that in writing…” Jaskier said with a wink, drawing Vesemir’s sword as the three of them turned back toward the scene of utter pandemonium breaking out before them.  
  
A wave of magical creatures-turned-soldiers streamed through the doors as Alda’s men came to, righting themselves and lunging toward their should-be prisoners. Brohn had tossed Drizella a sword and the two of them were circling Alda as he fought to stand. Geralt turned toward Jaskier, a mixture of ‘gods, I could kiss the lips off your face’ and ‘but, I have to go deal with this’ radiating in his golden gaze. Reluctantly, Jaskier nodded as the witcher stormed through the sea of bodies toward Verin Alda. Neither he nor Yen had time to dwell on it further as a group of guards broke away and engaged them. Yen reached down and yanked her sword up from the floor from where Alda had presumably taken it from her and with a cry she lunged forward, intermittently casting spells and slashing left to right. Jaskier may not have shared her confidence, but he wove his way in and out of the mess of guards, dodging and deflecting as best he could, sending one particularly large bloke reeling as he brought the pommel down with a crack against the back of the man’s skull. He chanced a glance at Geralt, who was now circling a bleeding but standing Verin Alda. A maniacal grin was on the black-haired man’s face despite the blood pouring from his shoulder. Yen had drifted to his left and she now fought almost back to back with Drizella. Brohn stayed close to his wife, ducking low to avoid a nasty horizontal swing and pivoting instead around to the guard’s backside. Jaskier heard the man scream as Brohn’s blade sliced across the backs of his knees. Jaskier raised his own sword once more, preparing to fend off a vertical slash from yet another guard when he felt the air thicken around him and suddenly, with a feeling as though he had been hooked around the navel he was tugged backwards into the waiting arms of a large, strong someone…that someone was not Geralt…which meant things were bad.  
  
“This has all been very electrifying… _really_ …” Came Bolek Sanz’ icy voice over his shoulder, and Jaskier felt his head being tugged back by his hair, sending hot tears springing into his eyes. “…but I’m afraid our time together is up!” the voice boomed maliciously, echoing over the roar of the fighting. Jaskier could just see Geralt, who had driven a panting Alda to his knees, look up. Around them, most of the guards had been killed or disarmed, and the rest of the room seemed to freeze as all focus snapped in turn between Bolek and Geralt.  
Geralt felt his blood turn to ice; felt that achingly putrid bubble of fear rise in his gut as he stared at where Bolek held a struggling Jaskier. Geralt drove his blade further into Alda’s throat. The man still managed to leer back, daring him to do it.  
  
“You want to know what I’m capable of?” Geralt growled in a dangerous tone that Jaskier had never heard before. “Let him go, Bolek…or your little protégés head joins the rest…”  
  
“Easy now, little white whelp…” Bolek oozed, ignoring Jaskier’s free hand as it grappled with the one tugging painfully at his scalp. “I’m not without mercy…you have something of mine, and I have something of yours…a deal can be made here…” Geralt didn’t move.  
  
“I’m not in the market of trusting your promises.” Geralt continued in that low, guttural growl.  
  
Abruptly, Jaskier felt Bolek’s dagger press into his back, forcing him forward until they drew level with Drizella. She flinched away and Brohn stepped forward, hefting his sword as Bolek adjusted one arm so he was pressing the dagger to Jaskier’s throat as he reached out with his other hand..  
  
“I would think twice, were I you, demon…” Bolek seethed, and Brohn froze, though he continued to hold his blade ready in case Bolek tried anything un-toward. The mage slid his fingers roughly under the leather and silver circlet around Drizella’s neck, speaking a few words in Elder. With a hiss, the choker dropped to the floor tiles. Turning his eyes back to Geralt, Bolek repeated the same gesture on Brohn, an unsettling wicked smile spreading on his lips. Gasping, the two Kelpies crashed into each other in an embrace, but Bolek was already jerking Jaskier backward. He stepped up to a large window, and twisting Jaskier’s good arm around his back, thrust the bard headfirst over the ledge, dagger once more pressed threateningly into his back. Jaskier yelped, scrabbling uselessly with his injured arm and trying to kick with his feet, but the mage held him effortlessly with an almost super-human strength.  
  
“How about this for a promise?” Bolek called back at Geralt in an almost bored tone as Jaskier whimpered in his grasp.  
  
It took every ounce of will-power the witcher could muster not to run forward. He instead took three steps back from Alda, removing the point of his sword from the man’s throat, Alda’s tilted black eyes continued to survey him like rather disgusting insect he would like to squash.  
  
“That’s better…” Bolek said, easing back on the dagger and allowing Jaskier’s feet to touch the floor. “…all this fuss for a bard?” Bolek said slowly, “Dime a dozen, I would think…unless…” His smile widened as Geralt’s scowl deepened threateningly. “…very interesting…” Bolek whispered. Alda was slowly getting to his feet, but didn’t try anything with Geralt’s sword still trained on him. The witcher instead circled around behind him, aiming the point of his sword into his back.  
  
“Walk…” He growled, and Alda reluctantly obeyed, taking three swaggering steps forward until Geralt muttered ‘stop’ several feet still from where Bolek held Jaskier out the window.  
  
“Now let him go…” Geralt snarled.  
  
Bolek’s smile nearly split his face.  
  
“You ought to leave the words to your dear little bard, witcher, before one of you gets hurt.”  
  
With a shove, Bolek let go of Jaskier’s wrist and swept from the window as a piercing scream shattered the night air. Geralt flew to the window as Bolek’s high cold laughter echoed in the chamber, but Yen was already there, hands outstretched, and Jaskier’s screams were blessedly silenced as she cast Quen. The bard’s horror-struck face gazed the four story distance back up at them from where he had landed, thankfully unscathed below.  
  
“Hang on, Jaskier!” Geralt shouted, whirling around toward where Alda had once stood only to glimpse the last electric traces of a portal winking shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, okay, I feel like I need to unclench after that marathon...hope y'all are enjoying, if you are I'd love a comment! This fic wraps up next chapter, but I plan to write the next installment of this series around these villians as well...feedback? Do y'all like 'em okay?
> 
> Also, also, Bolek's last line where he blames Geralt for his poor choice of words is definitely a nod to what The Joker says to Batman in The Dark Knight when he crashes Bruce's penthouse party and dangles Rachel off his balcony...I couldn't resist.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN!  
> This story is done-zo, and this chap is pretty short, just tying up a few loose ends...a lil' smut thrown in, but since sex is more of a side-effect of this fic, it's not super heavy and it's purposefully written as a sort of 'fill-in-the-blank' style rather than blatantly explicit...feelin' some kinda way this morning I guess, lol  
> Yes, they are playing fucking King's Cup  
> Throw down a comment if you enjoyed, I'm trying to dredge up the inspo I need to start the next installment of this lil' series and would love y'alls feedback!

“Nine is for ‘rhymes’” Jaskier said gleefully as a scowling Geralt flipped over the card.  
  
They had been in the capital, Pont Vanis, for four days following the incident at the mine. Verin Alda and Bolek Sanz had escaped to the gods knew where. The workers at the mine had been freed, and Yennefer herself was meeting with the councilmen of the capital tomorrow to discuss the particulars of the affair and see if she could glean any more information about the loyalties of the two criminals or where they might be staked out next. And though Jaskier, Geralt and Yen knew their troubles were far from over, tonight was all about dedication to a cause of a different kind…a little post-fight R&R. Jaskier’s smile widened and Yen smothered a snicker in the back of her hand as Geralt continued to glower at his card.  
  
“Fuck.” He murmured, laying the offending nine of diamonds face up on the table.  
  
“Duck!” Jaskier began with a smug smile.  
  
“Stuck…” Yen continued, cocking her eyebrow at the witcher…he merely shrugged, a grin creeping onto his lips.  
  
“Muck” Drizella…  
  
“Luck!” Brohn…  
  
“Suck.” Back to Geralt…  
  
“Yes, please!”  
  
“Jaskier…”  
  
“Sorry! Couldn’t resist!” The bard chortled, raising his mug with a meaningful look at the witcher; “Geralt… _ahem_ …I do believe you also drew an eight the turn before?” Geralt leveled him an unconvinced look, “…eight is for _mates_ , Geralt…bottoms up!” He punctuated the explanation by clinking his tankard against the witcher’s, who finally obliged, raising his own stoneware pint to his lips and tilting his head back. Jaskier mimicked him with a satisfied hum, taking a long swallow before lowering his cup. He scrubbed the back of his hand across his lips, his eyes widening as Geralt continued to drink, downing almost his entire pint before their very eyes. After several seconds, he finally came up for air, exhaling richly and slamming his tankard upon the wooden table top.  
  
“Game over.” He growled, a wide grin splitting his face as Jaskier’s mouth worked soundlessly.  
  
“Piglet…” Yennefer muttered, smiling around the rim of her own cup before turning to Brohn. There were still a few questions she needed answered. She rapped her fingers against the tabletop for a few moments before speaking; it was a rather delicate inquiry. “Before Bolek’s man found me…back at the mine, I couldn’t help notice there weren’t any graves anywhere…not in the entirety of the compound. If what Drizella has said is true about the frequency with which Alda replaced his workers, that should amount to several mass graves at least…” Surprisingly, Brohn’s eyes darted nervously to his wife before he answered.  
  
“Well there wouldn’t be would there?” He chewed the inside of his lip uncomfortably before going on in a low voice, “…at least the graves wouldn’t be at the mine…I don’t know the particulars, but I caught a couple of rumors…and I’ve seen things…” Drizella’s eyes were scanning him worriedly now, and she placed one of her hands gently upon his as he continued, “Bolek’s not there all the time. He must be holed-up in some other location. Whenever he would visit, he would take prisoners away…for what purpose, I couldn’t say, but we’d never see them again.”  
  
“…Brohn, you didn’t tell me…” Drizella whispered in a small voice, her eyes shining.  
  
“I didn’t want to worry you, love…” He cupped her cheek and she shook her head at him in a sympathetic sort of way. Geralt’s eyes caught Jaskier’s in one of his steady, telepathic gazes and Jaskier immediately deciphered the admission, the guilt and the apology in his eyes with the knowledge of how many of their conversations went the same way, without the need for a single word as he was so often accustomed to doing and he gave the witcher a small smile of understanding in response. Yen remained quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought as she swirled her dark wine.  
  
“I’ll need to return to Aretuza after meeting with the councilmen tomorrow. I need to figure out all I can about Bolek if we are to fine them again.” The table was silent, collectively mulling over their new mystery. Jaskier, as usual, could be counted on to break the silence, and he reached for another card from the wide fan that surrounded the base of the central ‘Kings’ cup.  
  
“Queen… _of hearts_ …” He oozed, batting his eyes at Geralt, who sighed heavily but the effect was a bit spoiled on account of the smile he couldn’t quite get rid of. “Queen is for questions; I ask each of you a question, and you have to answer honestly. If you choose not to answer at all, you drink of course!” The bard said a virtuous tone that suggested honesty was in everyone’s best interest.  
  
“…More ale…” The witcher grumbled suddenly, shoving his way off of the bench and heading toward the bar. Jaskier gaped at his back as the rest of the table roared with laughter.  
  
***  
  
Jaskier sighed contentedly burying his toes further into the sand and absently shuffling the deck of cards in his hand. It was a cool evening, but not bitter and they had both ditched their boots in favor of a leisurely bare-foot stroll on the beach. It wasn’t the tropical paradise Jaskier would have preferred, but it was _a_ coast. Spring was coming even to Kovir and a pleasant breeze blew across the Gulf of Praxeda. Jaskier smiled inwardly as his eyes took in the sight of the man next to him, looking rather domestic indeed in his oversize black tunic and the cuffs of his breeches pushed up over his strong, pale calves. The breeze caught Geralt’s silver hair in a way that made Jaskier’s heart flutter, and he suddenly found himself wondering what he had done to deserve such a prize as this. His fingers continued their absent strumming through the cards until he stopped short with a hiss, bending to snatch one that had fluttered away before an incoming breaker could wash it away; the Queen of Hearts. Geralt had paused and was looking around at him. Jaskier flashed him a toothy grin and brandished the card.  
  
“You didn’t answer me before…I don’t know if that means you have a drinking problem or you really don’t want me to know, which is rather irrelevant at this point I would think…” Jaskier winked at him, “Go on then, Geralt, spill it…no doubt you’ve had your fair share of toe-curlers in your vast lifetime…y’know… _laid siege_ to the continent? Completed a few _side jobs_? Assaulted with your _deadly weapon_?...” Jaskier strode forward until he was looking up into the witcher’s face, golden eyes appraised him carefully.  
  
“Jaskier…” Geralt cut in,  
  
“Okay, okay…but I simply _must_ know…who takes the cake?” Why did he want to know? The gods only knew…what purpose would the information serve? Maybe _he_ should’ve had another drink…  
The witcher was silent a moment, not taking his eyes from the bard;  
  
“…he’s looking at me…about three ticks shy of being banished to his own room; frustrated and wanting for the remainder of the evening…”  
  
“Oh…” It was Jaskier’s turn to be struck uncharacteristically silent. “Well, no pressure or anything…” Jaskier replied in a voice that came out rather more high and squeaky than he had intended. Whatever he thought the answer was going to be, he hadn’t really expected that…particularly taking into consideration his inexperience in certain _situations_...or so he thought. Geralt hummed, taking his hands and pressing them to his remarkably soft lips;  
  
“I thought you wanted to be a knight in shining armor…you did save my life back there after all….” Jaskier swallowed, smiling weakly and squeezed Geralt’s hands as the witcher brushed his lips across Jaskier’s knuckles and his calloused fingers, planting kisses along the undersides of his wrists.  
  
“Hardly…talking a man into a shocked stupor doesn’t really grant the same irreversible silence that a sword does…” He said softly, forcing himself to remain present and meet Geralt’s penetrating gaze, “…those were your words, not mine…” He rounded off quickly.  
  
“Perhaps I spoke too soon…” Jaskier smiled in earnest then, cupping the witcher’s jaw with his hands;  
  
“You flatter me darling, _truly_ …though despite my tales, most of them taller than I care to admit aloud, of my various bedroom conquests I hardly feel worthy of this title…and you need not spare my feelings.” Jaskier trailed off a bit croakily as Geralts eyes flashed.  
  
“You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit…” the witcher growled, snatching Jaskier’s hand and shoving it over the front of his crotch where his half-hard cock already strained against his breeches. Something that sounded a bit like ‘mmmwwweeehhhnhhhuh’ slipped from Jaskier’s lips as his eyes glazed. He shook his head, trying desperately to usher his cells back into his brain.  
  
“Still…” He bore on a bit breathlessly, “I have a hard time believing no one else out there has managed to hold your heart captive…and I’m not talking about the kind of love that runs dry as soon as your purse or your cock does…whichever comes first…”  
  
“Most common, _sane_ folk don’t usually put so much stock in more than that from a witcher…and it’s _definitely_ the purse…” Geralt growled, leaning forward to nuzzle into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, and appreciating the way he positively vibrated.  
  
“Geralt…I hope you know I don’t feel that way…I chose to be with you in spite of the fact you’re a witcher…not because of it.” Geralt pulled away, looking at his bard more seriously once more, hands lacing into his and settling at their fused waists.  
  
“Guess I’m not much of a romantic…not really a feeling I’m accustomed to giving much priority to…my life has been about fulfilling needs…usually those of others…you tell me where the room for romance is in that?”  
“First of all, I would be utterly remiss if I didn’t tell you just how fucking _unbelievably_ steamy you are when you swing that sword of yours around…Second… _saying_ you’re unaccustomed to the feeling that someone else in this crazy world would be ready and willing to go to the edge for you…arrows to the chest, witcher flunkies and psychotic mages included, is about as _romantic_ as it gets…and has me positively bursting to say ‘ _I told you so_ ’” For he had, all those years ago, as he scrubbed away the various entrails and staggering aroma of Selkiemore before Pavetta’s betrothal feast.  
  
Geralt smiled…gods, he seemed to be doing a lot of it lately…and snaked his hands around Jaskier’s neck, pulling his face closer so that their lips almost touched.  
  
“…And that is why, Jaskier, be you knight or damsel…you are the best I have ever had.”  
  
***  


…“Gods, I fucking love you…” Jaskier croaks out, wishing he had about four more hands as he’s tugging and scrubbing at every inch of Geralt’s flesh, delicately tracing puckered scars as the witcher’s lips collide wildly with his, tongue pressing forward and choking off his words in an answer he’s more than willing to accept…

…Geralt can feel sweat slicking his brow though the night is cool and they’ve allowed the fire to die down to embers. The orange glow gently illuminates the vision that is Jaskier astride his hips, gripping his shoulders with a bruising strength and Geralt finds himself hoping there will a few tomorrow. He slides his oiled fingers over both of their cocks, leaning forward to lick the salty wet trail of sweat that trickles over Jaskier’s chest; inhales the blinding scent of raw arousal, a tang of sweetness, and wet heat that radiates from him. It’s enough to make him come _again_ just like this…  
“Gods, I fucking love you…” He murmurs huskily into his bards chest…

… “Geralt, how do you want me?” Jaskier pulls his lips off the witcher’s cock to an almost regretful whine and it almost sends him over the edge right there, coupled with the lidded golden gaze that greets him from where the witcher is laying under him. Jaskier stands slowly at the foot of the bed, bites his lip and draws a shuddering breath, wills himself to hold on…he’s so fucking close and his cock is throbbing rather insistently, and godsdammit he’s committed to beating his own record of being the witcher’s best lay right here and now, even if it means he can’t walk or ride for a week. Geralt hesitates, a small open-mouthed grin spreading on his face as his hand reaches down to slide languidly over his own cock, considering, and Jaskier groans audibly at the sight, his throbbing member giving a warning twitch. “Geralt, _pleeeeaaase_ ….” He whines desperately, squeezing the base of his dick and his eyes shut, and suddenly the witcher is moving before him and Jaskier opens his lids to find Geralt stretched on his hands and knees, magnificent backside arching into his hips, beckoning him.  
  
“Oh, fuck…”…  
  
***  
  
The next morning dawned cool and stormy, as they so often did this close to the coast and even Geralt, who ran hot as a general rule, tugged the blanket he had hastily donned as a make-shift robe further around him for comfort as much as concealment as he glowered into a pair of violet eyes that stared equally unblinking back at him.  
  
“I think knocking is quickly becoming of increasing import these days…” The witcher growled in a whisper as Yen let the last remnants of the portal she had created in the center of their room wink out.  
  
“What? Afraid I might interrupt the matinee show?” She teased as he caught her elbow and guided her into the hall. Jaskier snorted in his sleep but didn’t stir.  
  
“No, but I might charge you to watch…” The witcher leveled back as the door clicked shut behind him. Yen snorted.  
  
“It’s nearly noon Geralt, I have that meeting and Drizella and Brohn will be leaving soon as well if you’re interested in saying goodbye…honestly, have you really become such a night owl that…” She trailed off, her cheeks suddenly reddening as the witcher cocked his head at her. She bit her lip, unable to keep away a smile. If it couldn’t be her, she was glad it was Jaskier…she was glad he was happy…at least today. “Listen…” She began again more seriously, “…be extra careful, Geralt…and keep him close…” She nodded toward the door, indicating the bard, “Verin and Bolek will likely make every attempt to exploit your weaknesses.” Geralt ‘Hmm’d’, dropping his gaze, but caught up her hand in his instead.  
  
“You should be careful too then.” He murmured. She smiled a bit weakly, squeezing his fingers back gently.  
  
“I’ll send word once I know more.” With a swish of her divided skirts, deep green today, she strode back down the hallway and out of the inn.  
  
***  
  
“We’ll see each other again...” Drizella crooned, cupping Jaskier’s cheek. “…otherwise I might forget what your voice sounds like, and that’d be a tragedy to end all tragedies…” She grinned widely, stepping back and Jaskier returned it. The selkie turned to Geralt and Drizella extended her hand first; Geralt accepted it warmly and she took a step forward.  
  
“Try not to leave him behind for any more bad tempered monsters eh?” She whispered so that only the witcher could hear, jerking her head toward Jaskier who was saying goodbye to Brohn, gesturing excitedly and muttering something about ‘The Ballad of the Falcon’. Geralt rolled his eyes and shook his head.  
  
“I have tried…I keep crawling back.” He didn’t take his eyes off his bard. Drizella laid a hand on his shoulder;  
  
“People linked by destiny will always find each other.” Geralt’s eyes snapped back to her, dumbfounded, but she merely winked and gave his shoulder another squeeze before striding back to where Brohn waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next installment, I'll probably post the first update Monday since it's a holidayee


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